


Head Down, Walk with Reason

by goldenraeofsun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel & Meg Masters Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Omega Castiel (Supernatural), Prince Castiel (Supernatural), Prince Dean Winchester, Secret Identity, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-12-24 00:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 63,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21090080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenraeofsun/pseuds/goldenraeofsun
Summary: As an omega, Castiel is ineligible for the throne after his father dies. When his uncle takes the crown, Metatron's first order of business is to arrange a betrothal with King John for the hand of his firstborn son, the Crown Prince of Terra.So Castiel flees.On his first night on the run, Castiel stumbles into a band of outlaws just at the border. Injured and wary, he has no choice to stay with them. And although he had planned to return to his own kingdom once it was safe, home might not be the place he left, but instead with Dean, their alpha leader that took him in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous thank you to my betas, insominia, Kirby, and Annalea!

“Castiel don’t be dra–!”

Castiel closes the door in his uncle’s disappointed face and sinks down on his opulent bed, his head in his hands. At least he’s not alone. Meg is there to clean his room for the night, and Samandriel followed him and his uncle up from dinner.

“But this is good news, right, sire?” Samandriel says tentatively once he’s sure Metatron has departed. He flutters by Castiel’s side, unsure if he should begin undressing him for sleep. 

Castiel just shakes his head.

“It sure is.” Meg breaks the ensuing silence as she fluffs Castiel’s many pillows and straightens the sheets. “Clarence gets to put off his marriage for another month. I don’t see why he isn’t bringing out the alcohol and whores to share with the rest of us.”

_ “His Highness,_” Samandriel corrects with a glare as he moves to the fireplace instead, “Doesn’t seem so pleased, though. Why is that, sire?”

Castiel flops on his back, staring up at the elaborate canopy of fabric surrounding his bed. “Because I don’t know _ why _the Winchesters are delaying for a third time.”

Is Prince Dean just as unwilling to wed as Castiel? He must be the one orchestrating these delays. It doesn’t take a fleet of royal tutors to know alphas always have a greater say in their affairs than omegas like Castiel, prince or no. But what purpose does this serve, other than to wear Castiel down until every last nerve is frayed and snapped raw? They both have a duty, as orchestrated by King John of Terra and King Metatron of Paradiso.

From what Castiel can surmise from whispers among the nobles at the border, Prince Dean chafes at the betrothal as much as Castiel. But unlike Castiel, he has the power to do something about it.

Samandriel moves away from the hearth as the fire catches. “But didn’t King Metatron say your betrothed was away on a hunting trip?”

“For four months?” Meg says wryly. “Alfie, use your goddamn head for something other than sorting Castiel’s wardrobe.”

“Meg,” Castiel warns as Samandriel turns away, shoulders hunched. He grabs a nightshirt, avoiding Castiel’s gaze as he approaches.

Meg shrugs but holds her tongue for once.

Castiel recites dully, “King John said his son was away on a hunting trip this time. When Uncle Metatron asked last month, his son was indisposed due to illness. The first time, at the beginning of the year, he was away inspecting their border defenses.”

“Those could all be true, sire,” Samandriel says quietly as he helps Castiel undo the buttons of his tunic and into his sleeping clothes.

Meg merely snorts under her breath and snakes her hand around Castiel’s body to grab a small roll stuffed with dates from his pocket. It’s a bit bruised from the journey up from the dining hall to Castiel’s room, but Meg doesn’t care as she bites into it with relish.

From his other pocket, Castiel offers Samandriel another roll. Samandriel takes it with a grateful nod. “Thank you, sire.”

Meg rolls her eyes and swallows. “I still think you’re getting off lucky,” she says with a shrug. “You don’t want to get married, and for right now, you aren’t. What’s to worry about?”

“But why the delays? This marriage is inevitable. It’s our duty.”

Samandriel, his mouth glued shut by the sticky date filling, doesn’t answer.

“That’s your problem, Clarence,” Meg tells him, wagging her finger in his face like he’s a wayward five-year-old and not member of the royal family. “You think too much. Enjoy the present while you can.”

Samandriel turns down the sheets, and Castiel gets in, his head still spinning.

“And who’s to say it’s inevitable?” Meg asks slyly. “You could always escape, your highness. Rough it with the rest of us peasants if you hate it so much. You could finally take me up on my offer to rid you of your pesky virginity.”

“Meg!” Samandriel hisses, scandalized.

“It’s fine, Samandriel,” Castiel waves him off. “Meg is… We have an understanding.”

“What kind of understanding?” Samandriel asks at once, his eyes narrowing.

Meg grins as she reaches over to lightly punch Castiel in the shoulder. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Clarence?”

Castiel blinks, a little taken aback. Honestly, he had just thought if he provided Meg with a stable job and the occasional foodstuff above her station, he could keep a valuable ally in the servants quarters, one who is unafraid to tell him the truth, one who doesn’t speak in political hyperbole. But… friends. He had never contemplated that before.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees after a beat. “We are friends.”

Meg beams at him, and Samandriel just looks confused.

“Leave me,” he says wearily. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Samandriel bows low as he backs out of the room. Meg merely tosses Castel an impertinent nod and drags Samandriel out by the arm when he moves too slowly for her liking.

In the dark, alone, Castiel lays back in bed. How much longer can he stand this interminable wait? He’s hardly looking forward to being the token omega on the arm of a strange king in a strange land he’s never been to. 

While Castiel was young when his mother died, he’s heard many stories of her beauty. All her life, she was the Omega Queen, her title never separated from her designation. And when Castiel’s father died two years ago with only an omega son, his brother took the throne, an alpha with no intentions of letting Castiel succeed him.

After King Metatron was crowned, the first thing he did was organize the Winchester marriage, to take place during Castiel’s twentieth year. If Castiel had more time, maybe he could have persuaded the council of nobles to override his uncle and change the rules of succession. But now his hands are tied. Metatron carefully monitors all correspondence in and out of the castle. Castiel has no hope of inciting a rebellion under Metatron’s careful eye.

Castiel tried to reach out to Crown Prince Dean, wrote a score of letters to get to know his betrothed. He spoke enthusiastically about the court, about the delights of the lower town, the wonderful people he met on sojourns out of the castle. Hoping, when it finally came time to marry, Prince Dean would let him return to his home on occasion. But Prince Dean hadn’t been very forthcoming, and Castiel only received short missives in return. Eventually, Castiel gave up.

Castiel turns over on his side, facing the window. Stars twinkle from far beyond the castle grounds.

He falls asleep while idly planning a fantastical escape with Meg. They’d go on an adventure like out of the story books he read voraciously before he presented. Before his fate was sealed.

* * *

The days drag on. Metatron, as insufferable as ever, ejects Castiel no fewer than four times from council meetings over the next month. Each time, Castiel sneaks back and eavesdrops outside the front door. The guards, demoted knights from his fathers’ day Metatron doesn’t trust, happily provide a chair for him. 

When he was younger, he had been encouraged to join. Castiel had listened with rapt fascination as nobles reported their grain harvests, problems with bandits, and the like. Nothing was too boring if it had to do with the welfare of his future kingdom.

Now all Castiel hears about is Metatron. His alliances. His consolidation of power. His many vanity projects. Every meeting after another fills him with dread for the future of Paradiso.

After getting kicked out for a fifth time, Castiel sulks in his room with Meg and Samandriel. He has been denied dinner, again, for his inability to listen to orders.

“Any word from King John?” Meg asks as she sits at his desk and moves around a few trinkets in a vague approximation of cleaning. Samandriel looks up from his darning, his curiosity almost palpable.

“Nothing yet,” Castiel sighs, stomach twinging. “Metatron will be sending another messenger soon.”

Meg snickers. “Do you want to wager on the excuse this time?”

“No thank you,” Castiel says tightly.

“Suit yourself.” Meg leans back in her chair, tossing a balled-up piece of parchment from one hand to another. “How is the embroidery going?”

“Terribly.”

“That’s a pity. I have a few smallclothes that could do with some livening up.”

Samandriel almost falls off his stool. “Meg!” 

Castiel doesn’t have it in him to reprimand Meg for her improprieties, not that he ever does these days. Embroidery is just the latest chore Metatron has foisted on him, after eliminating his history and geography lessons. He steals books from the libraries instead, but the hours pass much slower without his tutor. Joshua provided thought-provoking discussions Castiel will dearly miss.

He is currently pouring over a tome on battle strategy Metatron doesn’t know he has squirrelled away under his mattress.

Meg snaps her fingers impatiently to get Castiel’s attention. “I heard good ol’ Marv has been getting impatient.”

Castiel flips a page. “Isn’t he always?” 

“Very impatient,” Meg says pointedly. “I heard he sent an envoy to King Crowley to ask about his long bachelorhood.”

Samandriel gapes. “King Crowley?” 

Castiel’s throat goes dry. Frozen, he can’t bring himself to look up and see Meg’s face. “For a trade negotiation?” he rasps eventually as the words on the page swim before his eyes.

Meg lays a hand on his arm. “Oh, Clarence, you know that’s not what he’s doing.”

Castiel gasps brokenly, his elbows thumping down on his desk as his head sags. He stares down at his book, unseeing. “No. He cannot…”

Back when he sat in on his father’s meetings, Castiel heard Crowley’s name thrown about more than once. Starving peasants crossing borders into Paradiso and stealing food. Bandits on his nobles’ orders disrupting trade routes. And Crowley is just the latest in a long line of atrocious monarchs.

“King Metatron is the ruler, sire,” Samandriel reminds him gently.

Meg’s normally sardonic face twists in an expression of more sincere sympathy Castiel had believed her capable of. “I heard from Duma if King John puts off the wedding one more time, Metatron is going to try his luck with Crowley.”

“But he’s awful,” Castiel says, stunned. “Torture, extortion… there’s nothing he won’t do.”

In the war a hundred years ago with Inferno, King Michael reported the prisoners-of-war from Inferno killed themselves rather than return. Every single one of them.

Meg’s voice hardens. “I won’t let you get sent off to Inferno, Castiel.”

Castiel glances at her in confusion.

“I came here from Inferno,” she says matter-of-factly. “And I’m never going back. Crowley, he might be king, but he’s not the worst of the bunch. Far from it, actually.”

Castiel, who had heard a little of her story from years ago when they first met, stays quiet.

“I didn’t know that,” Samandriel says.

“I don’t spread it around,” Meg says delicately. “Paradiso’s been good to me.” She picks at a stray thread of her skirt. Doesn’t make eye contact. “But if you want out, I guess I’m the expert at starting over.”

“You’d do that for me?” Castiel asks, stunned. “You have a good life here, Meg.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Meg mutters darkly. She sighs dramatically. “But if Marv is determined to kick you out of the nest, then I’ll give you two guesses who are next in line.”

Samandriel pales.

“That’s how it goes, sweetcheeks,” Meg says, slapping Samandriel’s knee. He flinches. “If Castiel goes, we’re next. Metatron is no idiot. He’ll figure we’re loyal to a rightful heir, and we’ve got connections.”

Rightful heir. Castiel hasn’t been called that in a while.

Samandriel swallows nervously. “So what are we going to do?”

Meg turns to Castiel, her face somber. “We’re going to get out.” 

Samandriel’s mouth falls open. He turns to Castiel, his face falling further as he doesn’t find the reaction he expected to see.

Castiel asks Meg seriously, “Where would we go?”

“Terra might be as good of a place as any.”

“What if we run into King John?” Samandriel asks.

Meg throws him a withering look. “And what, go up to him and announce we’ve found the future son-in-law he doesn’t want?” she asks waspishly. “Be smart, Alfie. If we don’t go looking for royalty, they won’t find us. Not everyone’s like Clarence here, taking weekly visits to pay homage to the locals. I’d be surprised if the royals ever leave their gilded palace. That’s not how it’s usually done.”

Castiel gets up from his desk and begins to pace around his room. “This is absurd,” he says in a hard voice. “I can’t just _ run away_.”

“You can,” Meg says smartly.

Samandriel sucks in an anxious breath. “Your Highness, I believe we should exercise caution.”

Castiel runs a hand through his hair as he thinks. “There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t,” Meg says impatiently. “You’ve been trying for years to find a loophole in the inheritance laws or oust Metatron. Face it, you can’t do that shut in here. And if you stay, you’ll never be able to.”

Castiel spins on his heel, striding purposefully across the room. “How sure are you that my uncle is planning on approaching Crowley?”

Meg shakes her head. “Last I heard, Gadreel was bragging Metatron confided in him. Asked him to deliver the betrothal letter personally. I haven’t seen him in three days.”

“Gods,” Castiel groans. He looks to Meg, to Samandriel, and back again. Meg’s mouth is set in a defiant line. Samandriel’s face is wearing all the emotions Castiel has been trained to keep hidden since birth: fear, uncertainty, desperation.

“Your Highness,” Meg starts, and Castiel pauses in his pacing to listen. She never uses his title. “You’re leaving whether you like it or not, to Terra, Inferno, or somewhere else. Why not do it on your own terms?”

Castiel steels himself, hazy steps forward forming in his mind’s eye, before they are dashed as reality steps in. He’s a prince for the gods’ sake. He has a duty, no matter how unpleasant.

“I can’t,” he tells Meg, his regret clear. “It would be selfish of me to abandon my post.”

Meg throws up her hands. “Unbelievable,” she hisses. “Look,” she says, “You’re not helping anyone here. You haven’t visited your people in _ months. _ You think that’s gonna change anytime soon? Especially now Metatron thinks his plan for you might fall through? He’s going to tighten that leash he has on you until you choke on it.”

Her words ring with a truth Castiel can barely stomach. He braces himself on his desk, head hanging between his shoulders.

“You want to help your people?” Meg asks, her voice almost gentle. “Keep yourself safe first. Then you can ensure their safety.”

Castiel straightens. “In three days, my uncle will hold his birthday feast.”

“Don’t remind me,” Meg says, wrinkling her nose. “Cook’s been riding all our asses for days–”

“We will leave during dessert,” Castiel interrupts. “Everyone will be sated with food or drink. Even the guards will be better fed than normal.”

Meg’s face lightens with a cautious hope. “Really?”

“We will depart then,” Castiel says firmly. He falters, glancing towards Samandriel. “Samandriel, will you be coming with us?”

“I – sire,” Samandriel stutters. “I don’t know. This is _ illegal. _ What if we’re caught?”

Meg rolls her eyes. “What if we’re not?”

“Meg,” Castiel warns. He turns to Samandriel, his voice quieter. “I’m not forcing you to come with us.”

Samandriel fiddles with his sleeves, worrying a small hole with his thumb. “I know, sire,” he murmurs.

“But it’s risky for you to stay,” Meg says, her face serious. “You know this.”

“I do,” Samandriel agrees hesitantly. “But– ”

“I don’t need an answer now,” Castiel says gently. “All I ask is you do not help Metatron in our capture. Can you do that for me, Samandriel?”

Samandriel bobs a nod. “Yes, sire.”

“Excellent.”

“Right then, Clarence.” Meg claps her hands together. “We’ve got some planning to do.”

* * *

Castiel and Meg run into bandits a mile or so from the border to Terra, because Castiel and good luck have never seen eye to eye. Castiel’s ankle, already injured in their escape, quickly collapses underneath him before he can get half a dozen swipes of his blade in. Meg puts up a valiant fight, but they are vastly outnumbered.

Disarmed and on his knees, Castiel looks up with hateful eyes at the Alpha who seems to be the leader of the brigade of outlaws. “We have nothing,” he spits. “Let us be on our way.”

“See, that’s not what I heard,” the Alpha says, almost carelessly. He wears a rough leather jerkin, loose pants that let him move nimbly despite his sturdy frame, and well-worn boots. A beard hides most of his lower face. His green eyes, though, are as sharp as the sword pointed at Castiel’s throat. “_I _ heard you were trying to pay with gold coin at the last town you passed through.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Meg shoots Castiel a reproachful glare.

Castiel shakes his head at her. If it garnered them one night’s reprieve, then it was worth it. Meg had taken a fall while they fled, hitting her head badly. Castiel wasn’t sure how well she’d fair after spending a night without a proper bed. Contacting a physician would attract too much suspicion, so he did the next best thing. He won’t apologize for that.

“You heard incorrectly.”

“Yeah, not so much,” the Alpha says, scowling. He nods at someone over Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel flinches as strange hands rifle through his pockets, pulling out a small dagger and his coin purse. He’d already been divested of his sword.

A tall Alpha takes Castiel’s money and begins counting. “There’s at least twenty coin in here,” he says after a moment.

The Alpha leader lets out a low whistle. “And where did you get that?” He jabs the sword further under Castiel’s chin, forcing his face to tilt up. “From sucking your lands raw and letting your people starve? I don’t know much about Paradiso, but I know there’s some fucked up shit going on there.”

“I beg your pardon,” Castiel says coldly. “I would never.”

The Alpha lets out a cold laugh. “Nobles, you’re all alike. Just because some dead monarch gave your grandfather land doesn’t mean you’re anything special.”

Castiel’s jaw clenches, but he stays silent. If this man thinks him a regular noble, he isn’t going to correct him.

“We stole it from his uncle!” Meg pipes up.

“You stole it,” the man says flatly, for once, his attention shifting to Meg.

“He was going to marry Clarence off,” she explains and Castiel’s face burns at her words. It was one thing for Meg to know he is a coward for running away, it’s entirely another to announce it to a whole band of people, bandits or no. Even after all that was taken from him, Castiel still has his pride. “We left before he could.”

The tall one clutching Castiel’s purse nudges his leader with his elbow. “Dean,” he hisses.

Dean ignores him, focused on Meg. “Why should I believe you?”

“Do or don’t,” Meg says blithely. “I don’t think anything else we say can convince you.”

“Dean!” the tall one says, a little louder now.

“Sammy,” Dean says warningly.

“We’re going to have visitors,” Sammy says, jerking his head towards the faint sound of hoofbeats in the distance. “We can’t stay here.”

“Right,” Dean says, backing away. “We’ll let you live. This time. Best of luck on your journey without a penny to your name.” The rest of the group fade into the forest with hardly a sound.

Castiel groans as he gets to his feet. Meg hurries to help. “Well that was fun,” she mutters as she leads him to the side of the road.

“That was not fun at all.”

“Gods, you have no sense of humor,” Meg tuts, but she wears a faint smile nonetheless. “We’d better hide. If it’s your uncle, then we’re as good as dead. Or maybe we can make it to the next town?”

Castiel shakes his head. “There’s nowhere else from here to the border to Terra.”

“Right, well, I guess we’re following our new friends,” Meg says darkly as Castiel leans on her to limp into the trees after the bandits. 

Leaves and branches crunch under his dragging feet, and Castiel winces with every sound. The voices of the approaching guards get louder with each step, and they’re not nearly far enough to avoid detection, especially by Metatron’s best trackers.

A hand darts out from behind a tree, and Castiel nearly lets out a scream as it closes around his bicep not supported by Meg.

“Shhh!” 

It’s Dean.

“Decided to kill us after all?” Meg snaps in a low voice.

Dean opens his mouth, closes his mouth, and opens it again to mutter in an undertone, “No – maybe – I don’t know.” His eyes dart past their shoulders in the direction of the road. “But you’re making enough of a racket they’ll catch you and then _ catch us.” _

“What a pity,” Castiel deadpans.

“Come on,” Dean says, tipping his head slightly to the left. “We have a trail – you’ll be quieter there.”

Castiel’s eyes widen in astonishment. “Now you’re saving us?” 

“Do you want me to kill you?” Dean hisses as he starts off silently ahead of them. “’Cause that’s the other option, sweetheart.”

“Nope, I’m fine with the saving,” Meg says quickly before Castiel can get a word in. She frog marches Castiel along on his injured ankle, and they follow after Dean further into the forest.

* * *

Castiel sits down with a harsh pant, everywhere from his knee down radiating pain in sharp pulses. Dean eyes him with an inscrutable expression on his face, and Castiel glares. “What?” he demands.

“You aren’t a complainer, are you?”

Of all the things Castiel expected out of Dean’s mouth, that observation was not one of them. He squints up at him, unsure of what his true intentions are. “I just don’t see what purpose that would serve.”

Dean chuckles under his breath before sending a wary glance at Meg, leaning against a tree.

“Are we almost there?” she asks.

“About halfway.”

“Did we lose them?” 

“Yeah, a while back,” Dean says. “They won’t follow us into Terra.”

“Are we in Terra yet?” Castiel asks as he lifts his face to the sky, trying to place their location with the sun.

“The one and only,” Dean says, spreading his arms wide to gesture around them.

“Thank the gods,” Castiel breathes as he lumbers to his feet. He waves off Meg’s help and instead tests putting weight on his leg. He lets out a low groan as his ankle throbs.

“Right,” Dean says, glancing behind them before determinedly striding forward.

Castiel tenses.

Dean holds his hands up in a gesture of no harm. “I’m just gonna carry you. Your foot’s just gonna get worse if you keep walking on it.”

Castiel leans away from Dean, sayings stubbornly, “I can make it myself,” 

Undeterred, Dean takes another step closer. “Sure, you can.” 

Castiel steps back.

“Come on!” Dean throws his hands up in frustration. “You’ve trusted me this far, haven’t you?”

Castiel sniffs, “Because we had no other option.”

Dean spreads his arms wide, mocking. “Do you see any more options than you did five minutes ago?” 

“His highness can be rather stubborn,” Meg lets him know in a sardonic an undertone, her grin wicked. No doubt she thinks Dean will believe the title a joke and not the truth. But she shouldn’t play those games out here. Not out of their element like this. In the unknown. In a foreign kingdom.

“Meg!” Castiel splutters.

Meg just rolls her eyes.

“We’re wasting daylight here,” Dean mutters, and that’s the only warning Cas has before Dean bends down, sweeps him up in his arms, and up over his shoulder.

Castiel squawks in protest as Meg lets out a raucous laugh. He wiggles, inhaling sharply as Dean starts moving beneath him. It’s not a terribly comfortable position, but his ankle damn near sings in relief.

“Come on,” Dean says as he leads the way. He pokes Castiel’s good leg. “Stop squirming.”

Slung atop Dean’s broad shoulder, Castiel can’t avoid being hit with full-on alpha scent. He breathes in and out from his mouth, but it does little to keep his thoughts from straying into unwanted territory. He swallows anxiously, but he can damn near taste Dean on his tongue, it’s so potent. He gives a futile kick with his good leg. “Put me down!”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to give orders here.” Dean’s hands settle behind the bend of his knee, keeping Castiel in place.

“Quit it, Clarence.”

Castiel scowls at her. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I’m on whatever side doesn’t get us killed,” Meg says shortly. “If I get a good view of your ass... well that’s just a bonus, isn’t it?”

Castiel huffs, frustrated. Dean clearly isn’t going to put him down, and Castiel is short on items to stab him with. Plus, his leg really does hurt. And Meg seems to trust him, for some reason.

“I am not a sack of potatoes,” Castiel mutters.

“Didn’t think you were,” Dean says evenly. “Never met a sack of potatoes this chatty.”

“Is there anyone out there to overhear us?” Meg asks.

Castiel feel Dean shrug underneath him. “Probably, but we should be safe. We’ve been camping out in this wood for a week already and nobody’s ambushed us yet.”

“Dean?” Meg asks.

“Yeah?”

“Funny name,” Meg says, sending a sidelong glance at Castiel. “Isn’t the Prince of Terra also called Dean?”

Dean’s hands clench for a split second on Castiel’s legs. “He is,” he says in a tight voice. An odd reaction, but perhaps Dean’s hatred of nobility extends all the way to the royal family.

“Popular name around these parts?” Meg asks.

Dean shrugs with his free shoulder. “I suppose. You know how it is; the royals announce an heir and suddenly you can’t throw a stone without hitting a rugrat with the same name.”

Castiel informs him, “It’s forbidden for anyone else to carry a royal name in Paradiso.”

“Oh, well, there’s no law like that in Terra,” Dean says easily. “I’m, uh, just lucky Samuel caught on much faster than mine did.”

“After the Prince’s younger brother?”

“Yep.”

The forest rustles around them, wind blowing lightly through laden branches. Small animals scurry underground or just out of sight. Dean’s footsteps are sure and silent, and Meg’s light tread can barely be heard over the ambient sounds.

“Why didn’t you kill us?” Castiel asks eventually. “It would have been much easier to let the patrol find our bodies and escape on your own.”

Dean stiffens underneath him. “We don’t do that.”

“Oh.”

Dean hikes Castiel further up his shoulder, and Castiel has to hold back a cry as his legs knock together painfully. “We’re not murderers,” Dean continues in a low voice. “We’ll steal from people who won’t miss pocket change but taking a life… that’s not us.”

Castiel exchanges a bemused glance with Meg. “I suppose it’s lucky we ran into you.”

Dean chuckles, and Castiel can’t really explain why his chest warms at the sound. “Yeah, lucky we robbed you blind and didn’t leave you for dead. Damn lucky.”

“Luckier than we have been.”

Dean doesn’t have a response.

* * *

They reach Dean’s camp where the rest of outlaws had met up some time ago. Dean deposits Castiel by a firepit in the center, glaring at him to stay put.

“I’m going to grab Sammy,” he says. “We don’t have a healer, but he’s the best we’ve got.”

Castiel reaches out to grab Dean’s arm. “I don’t need a healer.”

“Man, you are one stubborn son of a bitch,” Dean marvels. “You can’t seriously– ”

“I need a sturdy branch,” Castiel barrels over him, “and a rag or two to bind my ankle. I’ll have to move, since I can’t elevate my leg from this position. Willow bark too, if you have it.”

“I – what?”

Castiel sighs. “A branch, a rag, a proper seat, and willow bark.” He adds, “Please,” as Dean continues to stare at him like Castiel just got up and did jig.

“Uh, right,” Dean says, taking a stumbling step backwards. “I’ll get right on that.” He hurries away.

Meg plops down beside him on the ground. She smirks. “I think you broke him.”

“Excuse me?”

“I bet he’s never seen a noble that can take care of himself like that,” Meg says, bumping against his shoulder in a way Castiel might mistake for affection. “Where’d you learn that stuff, anyway?”

“I bothered the royal physician a lot as a child,” Castiel says in an undertone as he stares into the low fire. He doesn’t talk about the days – sometimes weeks – he spent playing pretend as the physician’s apprentice. It's small wonder Castiel latched onto him when his father was busy with other affairs. The physician could always be trusted to be found somewhere in the castle. The castle staff was large, and someone was always falling ill or taking a tumble out in the practice yards. 

“When he was too busy to entertain me,” Castiel continues, “he gave me a couple of books to read on my own. I can’t cure mortal illness, but minor scrapes and bruises, I can treat.”

Meg grins at him, pride shining in her eyes. “I knew you’d be alright out here. Look at you, almost a real boy and everything.”

Castiel scoffs but doesn’t say anything further as Dean comes back with Castiel’s asked-for items. “Here,” he says as he hands them over. “You need any help?”

“No, thank you,” Castiel says, puzzled. “Once I get this taken care of, we can take our leave.”

But Dean doesn’t move away like Castiel expects. Instead, he dithers in front of them, his weight shifting from foot to foot. “You can’t leave,” he says eventually.

Castiel’s hackles raise. “Are we prisoners?” he demands, fighting to keep his voice steady. He was practically a prisoner once, and never will be again. “Are you going to keep us here against our will?”

“What? No!” Dean protests, palms up in a gesture of no ill-will. “You’re injured. I’m just saying you can stay here until you’re back on your feet. That’s all.”

Castiel settles back, only minorly appeased. The prospect of hobbling out of the forest and further into Terra, the unknown, still presents a daunting task. His eyes narrow at Dean. “You swear? You give your word?”

“I swear.”

“Here,” Castiel says to Meg, handing her the stick and rags. “Can you make this into a split and wrap it?”

Meg stares at him, wide-eyed. “I can try,” she says as she takes the stick from him.

Dean, still standing over them like a hulking shadow, crouches down. “If you can hold the stick steady,” he says to Meg, “I can bandage it. I’ve had injuries like this before.” He meets Castiel’s gaze, his expression cautious. “Will you let me help?”

Castiel’s throat goes dry. Dean’s eyes are very green. “I – yes, thank you.”

Dean’s head bows, and he busies himself with removing Castiel’s shoe. He holds Castiel’s foot tenderly, and Castiel can’t help the shiver of Dean’s hands on his bare skin. He feels oddly vulnerable like this.

They take care of Castiel’s injury with little fuss, and Dean sits back, satisfied. “How does that feel?”

Castiel wiggles his toes. “Good.”

Dean stands. “Right, well, I’m fucking starving,” he announces. He holds his hand out to Meg to help her to her feet. He tugs her away from Castiel, calling over his shoulder “We’ll get you some food, yeah?” 

Before Dean can take two steps, Castiel asks loudly, “You’re offering us food?” 

“Yeah?” Dean says, turning back around. “I don’t think you can feed yourself on that.” He gestures to Castiel’s leg. 

“No, I can’t,” Castiel says faintly. “But why?”

Dean huffs an annoyed noise. “If I sent you away now, you’d probably die out there,” he says, gesturing to the forest. “And I’d have put all that work into carrying you here for nothing. So…” He drifts off, ducking his head to rub at the back of his neck self-consciously. “Stay put. We’ll be back.” And without another word, he grabs Meg but her upper arm and all but hauls her away.

If Castiel was fully mobile and had any doubts Meg could take care of her herself, he would have followed, but instead he sits by the fire, mulling over all the events that brought him to this strange place and odd alpha. Samandriel – 

He’s interrupted before his thoughts can get too morbid.

“Hey.” It's Sammy, the tall one from before. He carries a kettle in one hand. “I saw Dean bringing you in earlier.”

Castiel shifts in place, conscious of his injury. “Yes, he has been very kind,” he says warily.

Sammy chuckles. “And he says I bring in too many strays.” He gestures to the fire. “Do you want to boil that?”

Castiel hands over the willow bark without a word. “I was just going to chew on it.”

Sammy makes a face. “Gross.”

Castiel shrugs. “I believe there’s a saying about beggars and choosers. And right now, my choices are very few.”

Sammy grins, but his expression turns sheepish. He stokes the fire and fiddles with the kettle, saying, “I’d apologize, but I’m not really all that sorry since it’ll keep us going for another month, at least.” 

Castiel doesn’t have any words in response.

“Dean said he was under your orders, grabbing all that stuff.” Sammy tips his head in the direction of Castiel’s foot. “Did you moonlight as a physician?” he asks, a slight teasing note to his voice.

“I have many interests,” Castiel says haltingly, preparing himself for the rebuke. Omegas shouldn’t concern themselves with any type of study. Omegas are too simple to understand. Omegas don’t belong out of the home.

Sammy turns to give Castiel his full attention instead. “Like what?”

Castiel blinks, a little taken aback by Sammy’s expectant look. “History, literature, the rest of the natural sciences.”

“Oh wow,” Sammy says, his excitement nearly palpable. He good-naturedly badgers Castiel for an impromptu Paradisian history lesson until Dean comes back. “Hey,” Sammy says in greeting. “Did you know Clarence has been to the archives in Paradiso?”

“No,” Dean says dryly as he hands Castiel a bowl of cold fish over rice. “Somehow that didn’t come up on the way over.” 

Castiel murmurs his thanks and picks off a piece of fish to pop into his mouth. The salty sourness of cured fish hits his tongue, and he can barely hold back a groan. He and Meg haven’t eaten in a day and a half, since Meg roused him from bed to flee, hours ahead of schedule. The rice, a little overcooked, still tastes like heaven.

“Where’s Meg?” Castiel asks, looking around.

Dean shrugs. “I think she got caught up talking to Benny.”

“Our cook,” Sammy explains.

“So,” Dean starts, “What’s your story?”

Castiel nearly chokes on his next piece of fish. “My story?” he rasps as his airway clears.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “What brought you to our doorstep?”

“Uh, you did?”

Dean snorts. “Before that, smartass. You were running away?”

“There’s not much else to say,” Castiel says evasively. “After my father died, my uncle took over our… land. He wanted to get rid of me as quickly as possible, so he arranged to marry me off to whoever suited him best.”

“What a dick.”

Castiel eats another piece of fish. “I thought it was my duty to stay and see the marriage through – for the good of the people my uncle oversaw. Recently the situation became… untenable. Meg convinced me to leave instead.”

“It wasn’t your choice?” Dean asks.

Castiel confesses, “Not my first choice, no. I hope to return someday. But while my uncle is still in charge, I cannot.”

Sammy shakes his head sympathetically. “That’s rough. Where were you headed, anyway?”

“Terra.”

Dean exchanges a look with Sammy and makes an impatient noise, waving away Castiel’s answer. “Where in Terra? I don’t think any of our nobles have ties to Paradiso’s nobility.”

“We hadn’t planned that far,” he says to his empty bowl. “I had hoped our resources were enough to temporarily settle in Terra. Somewhere we wouldn’t attract attention.”

Castiel’s mood sinks. Now he and Meg have no resources to speak of, surrounded by strangers in a foreign land.

Dean and Sammy share another look Castiel can’t decipher.

Over the next couple days, Castiel meets everyone in Dean’s camp. Jesse and Cesar, a mated alpha and omega pair, come to him to ask about pains in Jesse’s back that started a few months ago. When lunch rolls around the next day, Benny hands him a bowl full of fish stew and tells him to come back for more if he’s still hungry. Castiel doesn’t confide to anyone but Meg that Benny surprised him, such a big, burly alpha in a traditionally nurturing, providing role. Meg just shrugs and says, “The world isn’t as black and white as it is in Paradiso, Clarence.” 

Garth arrives the next evening Castiel with a small cart carrying a pot for Benny, a pair of shoes for Krissy, and a few loaves of fresh bread for everyone. He’s unexpectedly affectionate for an alpha, wrapping his arms around Castiel in greeting.

Evidently, news of Castiel’s studies gets around in addition to his healing prowess. Kevin, another omega, stops by of his own volition and boldly engages Castiel in a discussion about the wildlife in this area of Terra at the border with Paradiso.

Days bleed past slowly. Castiel has more than enough downtime on his hands to concentrate on resting his leg. Meg takes long walks in the forest, occasionally coming back with pretty flowers. She tears the petals off, one by one, and sticks them in Castiel’s hair while he dozes.

Dean and Sam disappear for a few hours every day, going into town for intel on who’s coming and going and news about the kingdom their little camp.

Jo, yet another alpha, goes with them about half the time. The other half, she commandeers Castiel’s free hands to help whittle new traps. He’s all fumbling fingers at first, but a fast learner. She replaces the old ones guarding their half-dozen horses kept in a smaller clearing by a stream Castiel hasn’t been to, immobile as he is.

* * *

A little more than a week after Castiel and Meg arrived, Dean comes up to him after dinner and says they’ll be moving camp soon. “Will you be good to travel?” he asks, tapping Castiel’s injured ankle lightly with a forefinger. 

“You want me to come with you?” Castiel asks, surprised.

Dean seems taken aback by Castiel’s question. “Yeah, man,” he says in a low voice, a smile playing along his lips. “You’re alright to have around… For a noble.”

“Thanks,” Castiel says dryly. “How much travel?”

“Two days, maybe three depending on if we make good time.”

Castiel exhales slowly, biting back the _ yes _ on the tip of his tongue. “I’ll have to talk to Meg about it.”

Dean’s eyes widen at her mention of her name. “Meg, right,” he says, in a funny voice. He shakes his head minutely as he gets back to his feet, muttering, “Let me know by tomorrow, alright?”

“Yes, Dean.”

Castiel waves down Meg later that night as she makes her way to the tent she shares with Krissy and Lee. 

“This better be good,” Meg grumbles as she lowers herself down on his left. “I’m dead tired.”

“From what?”

“All the things you’re not doing because you’re sitting here on your royal ass.”

“Meg!” Castiel hisses, glancing around. “There are no walls here!”

“There’s also nobody awake,” Meg says easily. “Relax. What are you still doing up?”

“Other than waiting for you?”

“I’m flattered.”

“I’m sure you are,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes. “Dean invited us to stay with them as they move camp.”

Meg thinks that over for a long moment, staring into the smoldering embers of the fire. Her dark eyes swallow up the reflection without giving anything away. “Do you want to stay?”

“Should we?”

Meg glances at him, her eyebrows raised. “You’re asking me?”

“Of course,” Castiel says like it’s obvious. “You’re much more adept at navigating these types of situations than I am.”

Meg’s shoulders slump. “Yeah, I guess so. I’ve kept you alive this long.”

“And you said we were… friends,” Castiel says cautiously in case Meg has changed her mind in the past couple of days. They had been through much – he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t see their relationship in the same way. “I hoped we would make the next decision together.”

Meg turns to him, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “Yeah, I think we can do that.” She glances around. “This place isn’t so bad.”

“No, I guess not.”

“I mean,” she lowers her voice, “It’s no palace, but compared to other places I’ve been to, other people I’ve stayed with, I’m not sure we could do much better.” She scowls. “Especially with no money.”

“Right,” Castiel sighs. “I don’t suppose we could take it back somehow?”

“Your coin?” Meg asks, chuckling under her breath. “That’s long gone.”

“Oh.”

Meg sits back, bracing her hands behind her so she can look up at the stars. “Dean took it and the rest of the money into town a couple of days ago,” she says. “He and Jo didn’t come back with anything but a new sword for Sam. They didn’t use all of it – or they would have gotten a much better weapon. But wherever it is, it isn’t here.”

Castiel glances at her. “You have no idea what they spent it on?”

“Everyone’s very tight-lipped,” Meg says with a shrug. “I’m betting on booze and whores, but that’s just because I’m hoping we’ll stick around long enough to get a piece.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You just don’t know how to live, Clarence.”

Castiel shakes his head ruefully. “So we’ll stay with Sam and Dean?”

“Yeah, we need friends.” As Castiel opens his mouth, she adds, “You’re cute. More than just the two of us.”

She leaves him to go to bed, leaving Castiel alone with his thoughts.

Dean announces they’re moving camp right after breakfast, with strict instructions to get everything packed up and ready to go at sundown. They’ll be sticking to backroads, with Dean forging ahead on horseback to scout their route.

As the rest of the camp disperses to get their affairs in order, Dean strides over to Castiel’s usual seat. “We don’t have a healer,” he says out of nowhere before Castiel can greet him properly. “Sammy usually patches people up, but we usually need him on raids. It’d be helpful to have someone back at camp.”

“You’d trust me to care for your people?” Castiel asks, eyes narrowing. “I’m not formally trained.”

“Do you know how to clean a wound?” Dean asks. "Deal with a fever or a cold?”

“Yes."

“Kevin says you helped with his migraines.”

Castiel glances over to Kevin, currently standing over the tent he shares with Eileen. He did mention to him there are some herbs that might be native to the area that could help, if prepared properly. “I wasn’t sure if it would work.”

“Well, Kevin’s back at one-hundred percent, so that’s enough in my book,” Dean says smartly. “You in?”

Meg appears before Castiel can give an answer.

“What are you boys talking about?” she asks, looking from one face to another.

“They’ve offered me a position here,” Castiel says.

“Is that right?” Meg asks, hands on her hips. “Why?”

“Because you’ve got nowhere to go, and we need a healer?” Dean says, a tad aggressively. “Clarence seems to fit the bill.”

Meg deliberates for a moment, and Castiel can see the gears turning in her mind, weighing their options. “If he does this for you, we get fed, get our own tent,” at this, Dean’s jaw clenches, “and a share of the haul. You have, what, ten people?”

“Us,” Dean counts, “Jo, Benny, Eileen, Lee, Krissy, Kevin, Jesse and Cesar, and Garth. But Weo keep half of what we take,” Dean adds. “So whatever you’re expecting, halve it.”

“What do you do with the rest?”

“Redistribute it,” Dean says evenly.

“Redistribute it to who?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

Meg’s lip curls. “Touchy,” she murmurs. “If Clarence and I stick with your merry band of outlaws, then those are our terms.”

“Fine,” Dean grits out. He offers his hand to her, and they shake.

Castiel does his best to keep his face blank. Clearly, Meg knows what she’s talking about and Castiel doesn’t. He may be disappointed, but he shouldn’t be surprised the Alpha deferred to her, Beta though she may be. 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Meg says smugly before sauntering off.

Dean watches her go, his face blank. He turns to Castiel and rubs a tired hand down his face. “You okay to travel?”

“I think I’ll be able to make it,” Castiel says as he gingerly gets to his feet. Dean hovers, his hand inches from Castiel’s elbow to grab him if he falls back down. Castiel is almost tempted to feign weakness, but he stands up on his own and takes a few slow steps. 

“Aha, look at you!” Dean crows as Castiel takes his first steps. “You know how to ride?” He snorts as Castiel opens his mouth. “Of course you do,” he scoffs before Castiel can respond. “Nobles.”

Castiel purses his lips. “I am adequate on horseback.”

“You wanna ride with me?” Dean asks. “Impala can take two people, easy.”

Castiel only had fleeting glimpses of Dean’s impressive jet black mare, only a couple hands shorter his father’s old royal steed.

“Sammy and me rode her all the time before he got Bones,” Dean adds. 

Castiel glances over at where Meg disappeared. “I’m not sure…”

Dean’s face darkens, but he forces a smile. “Impala can’t take three people, sorry.” His expression softens as he adds, “But she really is the smoothest ride we have. She’d be the best with that leg of yours.”

Castiel’s shoulders slump. “I suppose if she’s the best option, I must accept. Thank you, Dean.”

“Great,” he blurts. He flushes and jerks his head towards the tent he shares with Sam. “I, uh, gotta go, but be ready as soon as you can. We’ll be taking off before everyone else to get out ahead.”

* * *

Dean outlines the plan as they trot out out of the forest while everyone else is still dismantling their camp. 

Castiel had some inkling the trip would be difficult, but the reality only dawns as he draws in that first breath after Dean slides onto Impala's back. Pressed back to front, he tosses Castiel a rakish grin over his shoulder, and all rational thought flees from Castiel's head. 

He hasn't been this close to Dean since he carried him over his shoulder that first day, but then Castiel had Meg to distract him. If he had done anything untoward, Meg would have teased him mercilessly.

As Castiel tries to concentrate on anything but the intoxicating alpha scent, Dean explains, "If we take off like this, we draw less attention. Only Sam, Benny, and Jo have exact directions – our best fighters."

"Fighters with the least likelihood of being captured," Castiel guesses. 

"Got it in one," Dean says, turning his head so Castiel can catch his pleased little grin. "You’re the safest with me, though. I'm the best, obviously."

"Yes, I am well aware," Castiel drawls.

Dean’s shoulders shake with mirth. It's a lovely sound. Castiel can't help the way he leans forward ever so slightly, so his chest lies flush against Dean’s back. Dean’s laugh reverberates through his own chest for a brief, blissful second. 

But Dean stiffens. Castiel jumps back to their previous distance, flushing a deep red. He looks around, anywhere but at the back of Dean’s head, the juncture of his neck where his scent glands lie, the broad sweep of his shoulders. They’ve emerged from the forest and onto a country lane. A little overgrown, but beaten down into a proper path wide enough for a small cart.

"You're not so bad yourself," Dean says, his voice strained. "A little rusty, maybe."

Castiel gingerly loosens his grip on Dean’s waist too. "It's been several years since I was trusted with a sword."

"I bet you were a little terror. I saw that death stare you've got goin' on. I know I wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of that and a blade."

Castiel can hear the smile in his voice, and his nerves unwind a fraction. "I was very determined in all my studies. Including swordplay."

"Why'd you stop?"

"I was ordered to. When I presented three years ago… my father was very uncertain if it was proper for a young omega to be able to wield a weapon. Maybe he was afraid no alpha would want me if I could disarm them with one arm behind my back," he mused wryly. "He let me continue to train, but with reservations. When he died and my uncle took over, he abolished my lessons completely."

Dean makes a scoffing noise. "That fuckin' blows."

"My riding lessons followed a similar path."

"But everyone needs to know how to ride! What're you supposed to do, walk everywhere?"

"Use a carriage, ideally," Castiel says with distaste. 

Dean shakes his head. "That's no way to get around."

"I thought so too. Privately, I always thought it was an excuse to keep omegas homebound."

Dean stays quiet for a moment. "You're probably right," he says, a hard note to his voice. 

"Do omegas live like that in Terra?" Castiel asks. Without the trees in the way, he can see for a mile or two at least. A large field to their right has been recently harvested, stubby little stalks browning at the tops.

"Among the nobility, sure."

"I noticed your people don't entirely subscribe to secondary gender roles."

To Castiel's surprise, Dean barks out a laugh. "We tried that, when we were too stupid to know any better. But Benny's a better cook than all of us combined, and gods help the soul that tries to keep Lee from a fight." His voice dips, hesitancy creeping in. "Once you're all healed up, you could come out with us. Try it out. We'd have to train you up a bit more, but it never hurts to have another pair of eyes and hands out there."

"Out there robbing people?" Castiel tries to keep the judgment from his words, but doesn't quite succeed. 

Dean freezes. "They deserve it," he says quietly. 

Castiel’s eyes narrow. "For being born into the wrong family?" 

Dean snorts. "For squandering what opportunity gave them."

"What do you mean?"

Dean sighs. "A bunch of them have the money… resources… ability to help other people. But they don't. And I can't stand that. So Sammy and me decided to do something about it."

"By stealing their wealth for yourselves?" Castiel asks incredulously. 

Dean holds up a hand for silence, but Castiel plows on, undeterred. "What makes you any more deserving than those you are preying upon? How could you possibly know–"

“Shut up,” Dean hisses. His head swivels around. They’ve almost reached a fork in the road. A couple of uniformed men lounge by the wayside, idly watching the sparse number of travellers passing through. Their horses are tied to nearby trees.

“Shit,” Dean mutters under his breath as he yanks the reins abruptly. “Change of plans.”

“What?”

Dean jerks his head in the other direction as he urges Impala on. “Those men work for the King. If they see me, we’re toast.”

“Why?”

“Hey!”

“What do you mean _ why?” _ Dean demands incredulously as he nudges Impala, accidentally kicking Castiel in the leg. He lets out a yelp that Dean ignores. “As you so clearly pointed out, we rob people. Doesn’t put us on the King’s good side. Hyah!”

Castiel holds onto Dean for dear life as Impala thunders down the country lane. With his heart in his throat, terrible images flash through his mind: put on his knees before King John, sent back to Metatron, held under lock and key until his marriage with no hope of escaping a second time.

“Have we lost them?” Dean calls over the clatter of hooves.

Castiel cranes his neck around. If he concentrates, he can still hear shouts in the distance. He clutches onto Dean’s waist tighter. “No, but they’re not gaining on us!”

Dean barely acknowledges Cas’s words. He snaps the reins. “Come on, baby. Get us outta here!”

Cas’s fingers twist in the front of Dean’s shirt, sweaty from their exertion and hours travelling in the bright sunlight. He follows the bow of Dean’s body as he leans into the next curve.

A startled-looking woman and child jump clear out of their way. They overtake an old man astride a cart led by an ancient mule.

A young man with a pack slung over one shoulder stops to stare at them.

“Where are we going?” Castiel calls as they clatter by.

Dean glances behind them, green eyes wary. “I know someone in the next town who owes me a favor. We’ll lay low there.”

Castiel shoots a look over his shoulder, barely gratified at the empty road behind them. “Can he be trusted?”

Dean grins. “Saved my hide a couple times. Don’t see why this would be any different.”

They don’t speak until the town comes fully into view a short while later. It’s bigger than any of the villages and hamlets by the border to Paradiso, and Castiel can’t help how he relaxes slightly, surrounded by real buildings for the first time since he left his home behind. Dean slows Impala down to a speedy trot, and takes a sharp turn to follow just inside the perimeter of the town.

Dean dismounts in front of a nondescript house with no signs or markers to indicate who resides inside. He leads Impala around the back, where there’s a small paddock and a tan gelding already tied up. Dean reaches up a hand and pats the gelding on the nose as they enter the house via the backdoor.

“Who lives here?” Castiel asks, voice hushed.

_ “Dean?” _

Dean’s face breaks out into a wild grin as he turns in the direction of footsteps. “Your Highness,” he says.

Castiel blanches as Dean bends into a deep bow. Royalty? Here? Why would Dean lead them straight to a member of the ruling family? He gave no indication he has anything for disdain for the rich. But he does value gold. If he somehow knew Castiel was a wanted man, and about the undoubtable reward for an errant omega prince –

The illusion of propriety is broken as the newcomer, a lithe Beta redhead, jumps in Dean’s arms with a squeal. As soon as Dean lets her down, she gives her own bow. “Your Highness,” she intones in kind, her voice unnaturally deep. 

Oh, it must be a joke.

Dean snorts. “Charlie, meet Clarence,” he says, gesturing for Castiel to step forward.

“Another newbie?” Charlie asks, eyebrows raised as she gives him a thorough once-over. “Sam’s right. You are as bad as him.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Clarence, this is Charlie. She’ll hide us until the stormtroopers are off our tail.”

“I will?” Charlie asks imperiously, hands on her hips.

“Yes, you will,” Dean says. “Don’t forget that favor you owe me.”

“What favor?” Charlie asks, smirking. “The one you used when I kept mum to Ellen? Or the one you called in when I led Rufus all the way to the border? _ Or _ the one you cashed when I helped you and Sam escape from–”

_ “Charlie!” _

Charlie shuts up, her eyes dancing. “Just messing with you. ‘Course I got you covered. Would you rather stay–”

A loud knock sounds on the door. Charlie jumps. “Damn that was fast,” she mutters. She turns back to Dean and Castiel. “Go out the back, down the street towards the center of town. You’ll pass a building with a red shoe above the doorway. Tell Dorothy I sent you. Shoo!”

Dean wastes no time in grabbing Castiel by the hand and dragging him outside. He gives Impala a loving pat on the nose, whispering, “I’ll be back soon, baby,” before taking off down the street.

Castiel, on high alert for any sign they’re being followed, doesn’t say anything as they emerge onto a bustling street. After so long in the relative silence of the forest, the contrast is jarring.

Castiel glances back at Dean as he lags a half step behind him. "Aren't we in a hurry?"

Dean frowns, his eyes narrowing at Castiel. He picks up the pace. "I guess, yeah."

Nonplussed, Castiel follows. 

“Aha!” Dean tips his head towards the next corner, where, sure enough, a building sits with red shoe painted on a sign above the doorway, next to the words, “Baum’s Curiosity Shop.”

Dean leads the way with Castiel trailing behind. The shop is empty for the moment, a lone woman sitting behind a glass case reading a large book. She looks up as they approach.

“Are you Dorothy?”

The woman’s keen brown eyes flit from one face to the next. As she lands back on Dean, her alpha scent strengthens in warning. She nods slowly.

“Charlie sent us,” Dean continues without preamble. “Said you could help us lay low for a bit.”

“I can,” Dorothy says. She stretches and hops up from her stool. “Follow me.” She leads them back through the house, which seems just as cluttered with knicknacks as the storefront. There’s hardly a bare surface to be seen. “The attic is probably the best place,” she says as she walks with them up the first flight of stairs. On the landing, she reaches up and tugs on a thin rope, which gives way to release a ladder behind a hidden panel in the ceiling. “There’s a small window where you can see the front. If they look for you here, you can get out to the roof and hop onto the next building over. After that, you’re on your own, though.”

Dean immediately starts scaling the ladder to the attic, but turns at the last second. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“A friend of Charlie’s is a friend of mine,” Dorothy says, waving off his thanks. 

“Thank you,” Castiel echoes as he clambers up after Dean.

“Just don’t get caught,” Dorothy says before the trap door slides closed, hiding her from view. Her footsteps fade.

The dim attic is thoroughly coated in dust, and doesn’t look like it’s been disturbed by humans in years. A few small paw prints are scattered here and there, rats probably.

Dean sneezes.

“Ugh,” he groans as he settles down on a crate. “This is just perfect.”

Castiel strides across the attic, ducking low to avoid hitting his head on the low sloping ceiling. He grimaces as he wipes at the lone window with his elbow, thoroughly coating his sleeve in dust. The light barely improves.

“How long do you think?” he asks as he returns to Dean’s side.

“Probably until nightfall,” Dean says sourly. “Charlie will come by and let us know when it’s safe.”

Impossible. This town is very large, and one woman can hardly cover all that ground by then. “How will she know?”

“Charlie knows everything.” He grins, chuckling to himself. “Rumor has it she’s the runner up to be the next spymaster, so I don’t want to get on her bad side.”

“Spymaster?” Castiel repeats, alarmed. He sits up straighter, unable to help the way his head swivels to squint out the window. “She has connections to the royal family?”

Dean’s face does a funny spasm. “Something like that,” he says evasively. “I wouldn’t sweat it. Charlie has connections everywhere.”

“And you trust her not to report us to the King?” 

Dean snorts. “She hates him more than I do.”

“But she still works with him?” Castiel presses.

“A lady has to eat,” Dean says with a shrug. “And you know what they say about keeping enemies close. I’ve known her for half my life. She won’t rat us out.”

Castiel settles back down, hardly comforted by the news.

* * *

Hours later, they’ve fallen into a weary silence. A weak evening sunset is losing a battle with their lone grimy window in Dorothy’s attic. Looming shadows fall on the clutter surrounding them, but they’re hardly ominous after Castiel’s thorough, and very boring, inspection while there was still sufficient light. Castiel's heart has long settled into a normal rhythm after the excitement of the afternoon.

“I’m sorry you stuck here with me,” Dean says out of nowhere as he drags a heavy hand down his face.

“It’s quite alright.”

“I, uh, I’m sure Meg’s fine.”

Castiel glances over at him, surprised at the change in topic. He struggles for something to say to keep the conversation going. He eventually settles on, “She _ is _very capable of taking care of herself.”

“Yeah.”

Castiel smiles, a small flicker of warmth igniting at Dean’s useless word of agreement. Maybe he’s not the only one looking to keep talking. He traces a few Enochian runes into the dust to keep his hands occupied. “It’s probably for the best Meg isn’t here with us. She doesn’t do well in confined spaces.”

Dean swallows. “Why’s that?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel says, his brow furrowing. “Something to do with her travels to Paradiso. Or her life before Paradiso.”

“She’s not Paradisian?” 

Castiel shakes his head. “She’s from Inferno, actually.”

“I’m guessing your uncle didn’t approve?”

“Of Infernans?” 

“Of your relationship,” Dean clarifies slowly. “‘S why you left the arranged marriage, right?”

“Meg had nothing to do with my arranged marriage,” Castiel says, puzzled. “And my uncle disapproved of my relationship with Meg as much as he disapproved of any of my relationships with any of my servants.”

“You had _ multiple _ relationships with your servants?” Dean asks. His eyes nearly bug out of his head.

“I am – was – closest with Meg and Samandriel,” Castiel explains, unable to hold back his wince. _ Samandriel_. Castiel had almost forgotten. He slumps closer to the floor, scuffing his Enochian. He was a fool to ever get close enough to Samandriel to hurt him like that.

“Gods,” Dean breathes. He shakes his head, muttering, “And I thought all you Paradisians were uptight jackasses.”

Castiel shrugs. “I’m an anomaly.”

“I’ll say.”

“Meg still thinks I’m uptight,” Castiel says, smiling slightly. “She used to joke one day she’d get me to loosen up.”

“This is you loosened up?”

Castiel offers him a weak grin. “Indeed. It was her idea to run away, you know. I was ready to fulfill my duty for the good of the people. But Meg convinced me it was only for the good of my uncle, and any union he planned would hardly benefit anyone while he was still on the thr- in charge.” He looks away, biting his tongue as if that would cover up his near mistake.

“Good for her,” Dean says with surprising ferocity. “You don’t deserve a life like that. Being used by your uncle… no free will… that’s no fucking life.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, a little surprised and more than a little pleased.

Dean releases a sigh, his head falling forward to stare at his knees. “I get it. My dad was the same. Controlling. Always thought he knew what was best for us. Took me a long ass time to realize everything he did for us was mostly for him.”

Castiel’s heart twinges in sympathy. 

“At least he _ thought _all of it was for our own good, even though it wasn’t,” Dean continues with a grimace. “Your uncle, though. He’s just a dick.”

“He is,” Castiel agrees, a touch awkwardly. “Is your father still alive?”

“Sure,” Dean sighs. “Looks for me and Sammy every time he gets his head outta his ass long enough to realize we’re not where we’re supposed to be.”

“How often is that?”

Dean tosses him a weary smile. “Too often.”

“The king, your father,” Castiel lists off his fingers, “is there anyone else I should be warned is after you?”

“Nobles too. They don’t like me much.” Dean leans back, head pillowed in his hands as he gets comfortable. “Don’t know why. I’m fucking adorable.”

“Yes, it is a mystery,” Castiel deadpans.

Dean chuckles. “You know, you’re alright, Clarence. For a noble.”

“You’re alright too. For an outlaw.”

Dean’s responding grin is a beautiful thing to behold.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “D’you think the Omega Prince would have been a good ruler?”
> 
> “I’d like to think so," Castiel says, unable to meet Dean's eye. "He was ready and enjoyed what he learned from his father. When he presented, the readiness didn’t go away. Just the opportunity.”
> 
> Dean settles back in his previous position, half-facing away from Castiel. “What a crapshoot,” he says derisively. “The one prince who wants to rule can’t, and the prince who doesn’t want to rule has to.”
> 
> The irony isn’t lost on Castiel either.

Dorothy knocks once before clambering up the ladder with sandwiches. “No word from Charlie yet,” she apologizes. “I’ll go check with her in a few hours, but I think they’re still in town.”

Dean, cheeks bulging with food, can only nod his understanding.

Castiel inclines his head. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Dorothy snorts. “This is hardly palatial living, boys. I should be thanking you. This is the most action I’ve seen in weeks. I’ve been getting antsy.”

Dean groans as her footsteps fade. “I’m real sorry about this,” he says to Castiel.

“I believe you." Castiel nibbles at his sandwich. “You couldn’t have known this would happen.”

Dean’s silence is telling.

“Unless you _did_ know?”

Dean busies himself with resettling into a comfortable position leaning against two canvas-covered crates. “I knew the route would be guarded,” he says hesitantly. “The noble that owns this land… there’s a good chance he knows we’re coming.”

“Why is that?” Castiel asks, eyes narrowed. “Did someone _ warn _him?”

“No!”

“Then how could he know?”

“Look,” Dean begins seriously. “I told you we only go after nobles who deserve it, right? Well, there’s a small number of them, and they’re all friends. But Gordon Walker is the worst of the worst. Charlie only lives here because it’s the closest town to the capital with the resources she needs. His taxes are the highest in the land, and he makes it so his people can’t leave, even if they want to.”

Castiel blinks. “King John allows this?” he asks, disgusted.

“He doesn’t care,” Dean says in a hard voice. “He’s obsessed with finding the son of a bitch that killed Queen Mary. Nearly went to war with Inferno a couple of times over it. _ And _Purgatorio once or twice when he thought the bastard was hiding out there. Anything that doesn’t have to with his quest for revenge takes a back seat.”

“Ruling his own kingdom ‘takes a back seat’?”

“Did you actually use finger quotes?” Dean asks, almost amused. He shakes his head, his expression growsing somber. “He kind of lets the nobility do what they want. Trusts them to govern properly and responsibly, even though none of them do.”

“But what about,” Castiel coughs, “Prince Dean? Surely, if his father is incapable of running the kingdom, he can step up as regent?”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “Nope.”

Castiel draws up short. “Why?”

Castiel, of course, knows from his own painful correspondence with the heir to the Terran throne that he doesn’t care for his duty. But if Prince Dean let that reputation spread to his people… that speaks to true apathy.

“Because the Prince is a useless figurehead,” Dean says icily. “He can’t stand up to his own father to save his own fucking kingdom. He’d run away from his problems and responsibility at his first chance.”

Castiel’s gut twists. Despite himself, the similarities between himself and Prince Dean are as clear as day. Castiel carried the yoke of responsibility around his neck his whole life, but, unlike Prince Dean, he _ did _ run away. Left his people to fend for themselves under Metatron’s rule. Castiel can justify to himself that it was for their own good, that he couldn’t help them from his position, but the end result was still the same. His people suffering. Alone.

Moreover, if Castiel’s father was alive, would Castiel have the strength to defy him if he thought he was ruling improperly? There were some instances Castiel, as a child, didn’t see the logic in his father’s decisions. He could be capricious. Prone to rare episodes of cruelty, if Castiel was being the most critical.

But he loved his father. Thought he hung the sun and the moon and everything else besides. Standing up to him was, and still is … unfathomable.

Castiel doesn't say anything of this to Dean. Instead, he asks, “Prince Samuel is an alpha, isn’t he? He could rule in the place of the crown prince.”

Dean starts shaking his head before Castiel can even finish his sentence. “He would never ask Samuel to do that.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a lot in being the heir,” Dean says. “And if there’s the slightest chance Sam doesn’t want it, then he’s not going to foist that on him. It’s bad enough, uh, Prince Dean has to live under it.”

“Because he’s been doing such a great job so far?” Castiel points out.

Dean shuts his eyes, a long sigh escaping his lips. He says nothing for a long time. 

Outside, the noises from the street have died down as people retreat back into their houses for the night. It’s practically dark now, and Castiel can only make out Dean’s barest outline in the attic, the crook of his propped up leg, the strong line of his nose, the elegant bend of his elbow resting on his knee.

“How much about our royal family gets to Paradiso anyway?” Dean asks.

Castiel hedges, “A fair amount."

Dean waits for a second, biting his lip. "Terra isn't the only place with a fucked up royal family is it?"

"No," Castiel says, his gut clenching with foreboding. 

"What do Paradisians think about their rulers?"

Castiel swallows. "Not favorably," he says quietly, trying and probably failing to keep the shame out of his voice. "King Metatron is a tyrant, but unlike Terra, our nobles manage their estates well for the most part. They mitigate most of the impact of his rule."

Dean's brow furrows as he thinks that over. "Was the last king that bad?"

"No."

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

With a sigh, Dean lets his head fall back against the wall and closes his eyes. “We’ve never heard a lot out of Paradiso. You’re a bunch of secretive bastards.”

“Very insular,” Castiel agrees.

“Will Metatron last long, do you think?” Dean asks. “He doesn’t have an heir, does he?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Next in line would be Naomi. A first cousin to the last king. She’s an alpha, but a woman, so first Metatron then Naomi.”

Dean peers over at Castiel, his expression conflicted. Finally, he says, “But didn’t the old king have a son? What happened to him?”

Castiel freezes. Heart thudding his chest, he slowly turns his head towards Dean. He says stiffly, “He’s an omega.”

Dean doesn’t look surprised by that bit of information. “So?”

“Omegas can’t rule.”

Dean snorts a laugh. “Wouldn’t they prefer an omega on the throne over what they have now? At least he might’ve taken after the last king.”

Castiel ducks his head, unable to meet Dean’s curious gaze. “You’d think so,” he says quietly. “But that’s not how it’s done in Paradiso.”

“But–”

Castiel cuts him off with a glare. “It’s not how it’s done,” he repeats, his tone brooking no argument.

Dean falls silent, his shoulders slumping. “It must suck to be him,” he mumbles.

Taken aback, Castiel blurts out, “It does.”

“How’d you know that?”

“We’re, uh, nobles. Common circles, you know. Insular country, like I said before.” Castiel snaps his mouth shut before he can babble any more semi-coherent lies.

“You’ve met him?” Dean asks, baffling in his eagerness. Every part of Dean is turned towards Castiel, eyes shining with interest. “The Omega Prince of Paradiso?”

Castiel scowls. “Yes.”

“What’s he like?”

Castiel flounders, blinking stupidly at Dean as he tries to come up with a descriptor neither too flattering nor too negative. “Quite similar to me,” he eventually settles on. 

If Meg was here, she’d laugh at his hopelessness.

Dean licks his lips. “D’you think he would have been a good ruler?”

No one’s ever asked Castiel that before. When he was younger, he was too inexperienced for any sane adult to ask him if he would be a good king. Paradisian royalty and the nobles accepted their duties with the utmost seriousness. Even in jest, nobody would have asked adolescent Castiel that question. And then when Castiel presented, his possible rule became only fit for thought exercises after too many glasses of wine.

“I’d like to think so,” Castiel says slowly. “He was ready to rule and enjoyed what he learned from watching his father. When he presented, the readiness didn’t go away. Just the opportunity.”

“Must’ve been a disappointment.”

“You have no idea.”

Dean settles back in his previous position, half-facing away from Castiel. “What a crapshoot,” he says derisively. “The one prince who wants to rule can’t, and the prince who doesn’t want to rule has to.”

The irony isn’t lost on Castiel either.

* * *

When they’re finally freed from the confines of the attic, Charlie waits for them on the floor below, not Dorothy.

“You’re free to go, bitches,” she announces with a wide grin as the ladder descends. “There’s been no sign of King John’s men anywhere in the city for two hours.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Dean says, relieved as he jumps down the last rung and wraps his arms around her. “How’d you do it?”

“Led them on a wild goose chase,” Charlie says dismissively.

Dean’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “How?”

“I might’ve borrowed your horse.”

_ “You stole Impala?” _

Charlie slaps him on the shoulder. “Keep it down, you moron. People are sleeping. Any commotion means they’ll be back here like _ that.” _ She snaps her fingers.

“But – but my horse!” Dean splutters.

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Relax. She’s fine. Dorothy’s the best rider around. She took good care of your precious baby. Don’t freak out.”

“He's freaking out,” Castiel observes, a little concerned as Dean mumbles incoherently, a vein in his temple throbbing. 

“He’ll get over it,” Charlie dismisses, “especially when he gets on King John’s bad side on the other side of the country where I can’t help him.”

Castiel turns to her since Dean seems incapable of answering questions. “Does he often run afoul of the king?”

Charlie pulls a face. “Only every other Thursday.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay,” she says sympathetically. “He and Sam haven’t been caught yet. I don’t see why anything would change anytime soon.”

Castiel rubs a weary hand down his face. “Maybe their luck is running out.”

Charlie's hackles raise. “Maybe they’re just good at what they do,” she counters defensively. “And if you get tired of running around with them and even think about selling them out for a quick coin… I’m not the only asset Dean has in his pocket. He’s got some friends in very high places.”

That’s a surprise. “How high?”

“As high as necessary,” Dean cuts in gruffly. “Charlie, lay off. He’s new. If he’s not totally on board yet, he will be soon enough.” 

When they reach the ground floor, Dorothy is already there, wiping down spotless display cases with a frown. She drops the rag as the three of them enter the shop area. “Leaving already?”

“They’ll be back soon enough,” Charlie says as she sidles over to Dorothy and places a quick kiss on her cheek. “Won’t you?”

Dean nods. “You comin’?” he asks her, jerking his head towards the door.

Charlie shakes her head. “Dorothy’s leaving tomorrow for an expedition to Purgatorio.”

Dean turns to Dorothy, a new expression of respect on his face. “Really?”

“Really,” Dorothy repeats with a small smile. “I only have the shop to sell what I find abroad. On the road is where I’m meant to be.”

“Should I make more space?” Charlie asks, peering around Dorothy’s shoulder to a particularly heavy shelf laden with an impossible number of artifacts.

“Don’t you dare touch anything,” Dorothy says seriously. “I’ll make room when I get back.”

“If you say so.”

“Be seein’ ya, kid,” Dean says as he gives Charlie yet another hug. Castiel hangs back awkwardly, still a little wary from her earlier rebuke.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Charlie says as she pulls away. “You still owe me, remember. Don’t go and get arrested or dead before you can pay up.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

Charlie goes for Castiel next, bringing him into a blink-and-you-miss-it embrace. “Don’t let Dean be wrong about you, okay?” she asks. “He’s good people.”

Dean salutes Dorothy, who responds in kind, and he and Castiel walk back the way they came. At this time of night, there’s hardly anyone about. They silently make their way back to Charlie’s now empty house.

Dean all but falls on Impala as they reach her stall. “Baby,” he murmurs as he gives her a thorough once-over.

“She seems fine,” Castiel says, mostly unnecessarily in his opinion. Because the horse is clearly fine.

Dean ignores him.

Five minutes later, they’re still loitering as Dean fawns over his horse. Castiel snaps. “We need to get going,” he says with all the authority of would-be royalty.

“We do, do we?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised, as he pauses in petting Impala’s flank. 

“Yes,” Castiel says firmly. “I expect the others will be wondering where we are. And if they hear we ran into King John’s men–”

“Right, right,” Dean says sourly as he gives Impala one last pat and leads her out of stall to jump on her back. “Come on, then, Clarence.” He leans down, one hand proffered to help Castiel up. “No time like the present, right?”

Castiel grunts as he settles back on Impala.

Dean stays silent as they make their way out of town. They pass a few people outside at this late hour, mostly desperate-looking people who don’t seem to have a home to retreat to. Dean pauses in front of a particularly pathetic looking older man clad in rags, his shoes falling apart on his feet, and dismounts. He exchanges a few hushed words, drops a few coins in his hand, and shakes off the man’s thanks as he gets back on Impala.

Castiel stares as Dean clicks his tongue to get his horse to pick up the pace. “That was very kind of you,” he says in a low voice.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says brusquely. 

Castiel almost writes it off as a fluke – Dean certainly doesn’t seem like the overly kind-hearted sort, the type to be swayed by every sob story that comes his way. But he halts Impala again, this time in front of a young woman with three or four children who might be her siblings, but are probably her children. Dean hops down off Impala, speaks quietly to her, and gives a coin to each of the children and a couple to the woman.

Another old man. A lone child no older than twelve. A pair of teenaged brothers – Dean spends quite a while talking to them.

They stop no fewer than five times before they arrive at the main road.

“Is that what you do with half the coin you steal?” Castiel asks, dumbfounded, as Dean leads them onto a side path, a little overgrown and entirely deserted.

Dean hunches his shoulders. Over the rhythmic clap of Impala’s hooves, he asks roughly “What’s it to you?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes even though Dean can’t see him. “I just would like to know.”

“Well, that’s not how we spend it,” Dean says in a tight voice.

“I don’t believe you.”

Dean releases an audible sigh. “We usually go to the county magistrates,” he says shortly. “They know how to distribute it better than we do. They know where it’s needed most.”

Castiel furrows his brow. “Why the secrecy, though?”

Dean keeps silent for so long, Castiel doesn’t expect the answer when it comes. “I don’t deserve to be thanked for doing the right thing.”

“Why not?”

“Gods,” Dean says, exasperated, “because people shouldn’t fall over themselves to thank us for something we should’ve been doing!”

“Should have?” Castiel prompts, eyebrows raised.

Dean cranes his head around to glare at him out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t spread it around,” he warns before turning to face forward, “but Sammy and me used to… work for some of the nobles. Knew them personally and shit.”

Castiel tries to picture Dean waiting on some anonymous noble at a feast or mucking out their stables. He fails utterly. 

“We had their trust,” Dean continues, “saw first-hand how deep the corruption ran the first time we ditched our duties and met actual people for the first time. After that, Dad had a hard time keeping us on the same short leash.”

Dean’s controlling father must be some sort of civil administrator. In Paradiso, administrators are chosen very carefully – usually they were level-headed betas with true altruism who could balance their duties to the people they help and the upper class who pays them.

Terra apparently doesn’t choose them with as much circumspection.

Castiel swallows. “But you feel like you still waited too long?” he guesses.

“Got it in one,” Dean says grimly. “Never made a peep until it was too late. By then, the nobles had gotten used to us sitting back and doing nothing. Tolerated us for what we did for them, but that was it.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says after a moment.

“‘S not your fault.”

“But still,” Castiel says. “I know how frustrating it is to want to help and not be able to.”

“You do?”

Castiel chuckles, rolling his eyes. What a typical alpha question. “I’m an omega noble,” Castiel says wryly. “Nobody listens to me. My uncle wasn’t marrying me off because it was in my best interest. It was a ploy to get rid of me and my objections so he could exploit my people and land as he saw fit.”

For a minute, there’s nothing but the sound of Impala’s hooves clopping steadily against the ground and the rustle of wind through the trees overhead. Starlight winks above them, but otherwise the night sky is dark with a new moon.

“I was thrown out of many meetings before I left for good,” Castiel adds with a dark laugh. 

“At least you tried,” Dean says, his voice thick with self-loathing.

“And I’m sure you did too,” Castiel says gently. “Regardless, it is all in the past. You’re doing your best to fix it now, and that’s what matters.”

“Sure it is, Clarence,” Dean says weakly.

Castiel starts a little at the false name, but brushes it off. If tonight taught him anything, Dean’s a man who values honesty and doing the right thing above all else. He wouldn’t take kindly to learning Castiel’s been lying to him the whole time they’ve known each other. Good intentions can only get you so far, in Dean’s eyes, surely, or else he wouldn’t hate himself quite so much.

* * *

They only ride for an hour or so before Dean stops for the night.

“Where are we?” Castiel asks, looking around. They appear to be in a hamlet, consisting of a dozen thatched-roof dwellings surrounded by swaying fields and smaller enclosures for livestock. The smell of manure hangs thick in the air, overlayed by sweaty alpha.

“Still on Walker's land. Getting closer to his manor.” Dean nudges Impala down the street, eyes peeled. “We’ll be there tomorrow evening, if we make good time.”

He dismounts in front of an unmistakable tavern. It’s the middle of the night, but people are evidently awake and having a good time by the noise and flickering lights. Dean ties up Impala to a nearby post and gestures for Castiel to follow him. Inside, the din grates on Castiel after so long after just the soothing sound of Impala's hooves. Well-placed lanterns illuminate the main room in a dim glow probably hiding a multitude of sins. The soles of Castiel’s boots stick to the floor with every other step.

Dean marches up to the bar, shoulders thrown back and spine straight. An alpha through and through.

A dingy looking man looks up as he approaches and sets down the filthy glass he had been polishing. “Anythin’ I can do for you?”

“Do you have rooms for the night?” Dean asks without preamble.

“Might,” the man says, with a leery glance at Castiel. “Who’s askin’?”

“I am,” Dean all but growls, and the bartender’s eyes jump back to Dean. “Room or no?”

“For the right price.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “And what would that be?”

“Five coin for the night. Or you can part with one coin if I can get to know your companion a little better.” The bartender he leans across the bar to peer at Castiel, his lip curling. “Don’t get many omegas ‘round these parts. Not suited for the hard labor, y’know.”

Castiel stiffens, his hand inching towards the sword mostly hidden by his jacket.

Dean bristles like an angry cat, shoulders widening and alpha scent spiking in warning as he looms over the bartender. “Three, and I’ll take your hand off if you lay one finger on him,” he argues.

The bartender retreats a fraction. “Four.”

“Three, and we’ll also pay for a pair of ales.”

“You’ve got yourselves a room, then,” the bartender says without further argument. He grabs two glasses – the dirtiest ones Castiel has ever seen – and Dean turns away without a word.

He leads Castiel to a spare table, and gestures for Castiel to take the chair by the wall where nobody can sneak up on him. “Sorry for that,” Dean says, glaring across the room. “I don’t usually travel with omegas. Forgot how people can get.”

“Apparently so,” Castiel says wryly as he adjusts his coat to show the glint of the sword slung at his hip. “And don’t worry about me. I’ve heard it all before.”

“You have?”

“I did present a number of years ago.”

“Yeah, but…” Dean drifts off. He shakes his head, his brow furrowing. “You’re a noble. Who talks like that in front of a noble?”

“Plenty,” Castiel says darkly. “They may dress their requests with fancy words, but the intent is still the same.”

Dean pulls a face and glowers around the bar. A couple of the patrons near them shuffle in their seats, turning not to catch Dean’s attention. He stays like that, hunched over and glaring, until the bartender comes to their tables with their drinks. 

He deposits them on Castiel’s right side, leaning in close so his breath ruffles the top of Castiel’s hair.

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Castiel’s sword is out and dimpling the tender skin beneath the bartender’s throat before Dean can utter a word. 

“Move one inch closer and you’ll lose your head,” Castiel says calmly as the man’s eyes widen, the whites of his eyes stark in the gloom. “I know my companion here threatened your hand," Castiel tips his head in Dean's direction and digs the blade in a hairsbreadth deeper, "but I don’t like to leave loose ends when I settle my affairs. And if I took one hand, you’d still have another, you see?”

The bartender swallows. “I see,” he rasps.

“Good,” Castiel says as the bartender quickly steps away. He scuttles off without another word.

Castiel turns back around to see Dean openly gaping at him. "That was awesome."

Castiel ducks his head. "I can take care of myself." His face heats with a warmth that seems to spread all the way down to his chest. He resettles his coat around himself and picks up the glass with a distinct look of distaste. 

Dean chuckles. "You've been living in the woods for two weeks, man. A little dirt never killed anyone."

"It's just not usually this evident," Castiel sighs. He takes a sip. The ale tastes just fine, so he takes another. 

Dean watches, amused. "You're a weird guy."

Castiel narrows his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Every time I think I got you pegged, you surprise me."

"Is that a good thing?"

"It certainly isn't bad," Dean says with a shrug. "Got any more hidden talents up your sleeve? Not as rusty as I thought with a sword. Can give the healer a run for their money. Anything else that might come in handy? You're not a secret wizard, are you?"

Castiel shakes his head. 

They finish their drinks with very little fanfare. The other patrons steer clear as they make their way to the bartender. He is shaking like a leaf in a strong gale by the time they make their way to him. 

Castiel merely has to raise his eyebrows and hold our his hand for the man to deposit a set of keys into his palm. "Straight up and to the right," he mumbles. "Can't miss it."

The pair of them take off without another word.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean says as he opens the door.

Castiel peers around his shoulder, frowning at the room beyond. It’s beyond spartan – the next step down would be a sleeping atop a hay bale in the nearest barn. A single bed sits against the far wall, a lone blanket thrown in a heap at the foot. No pillows. A single grimy window on the opposite wall.

“Great,” Dean groans. He closes the door. “You wanna go back and scare him into a second room or should I?”

“Second room?”

“Asshole scammed us out of a bed.”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “You’d waste money on another room?”

“You wouldn’t?”

Castiel shrugs, his stomach fluttering with nerves as his eyes flicker back to the closed door. “We would be safer together. _ I _ would be safer if we were together,” he corrects with a funny fluttering of anticipation and guilt. Castiel can take care of himself, after all, but sharing a room with Dean proves a very tempting idea indeed.

Dean inhales a sharp breath, his attention snapping to Castiel at once. “You think he’d try something in the middle of the night?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Castiel says grimly. “He wouldn’t survive the morning, but people like the danger.”

Dean whistles. “That would be a stupid move after the show you gave him downstairs.”

“He didn’t strike me as the most intelligent of alphas,” Castiel says dryly.

“Got that right.”

Dean runs a weary hand down his face. “You're really okay with this?”

“I am.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He pushes the door back open. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Castiel swallows, his heart sinking. He stares down, hard, at the floor. 

Castiel doesn’t blame Dean for not wanting to be cooped up in a single room with him. Maybe his scent is too strong? They’ve had a hard day of riding, sitting in dust, and riding again. Dean may appear like every other alpha, but he has layers Castiel only glimpsed today. Perhaps one of them doesn’t care for omegas in that way.

Or maybe Dean just doesn’t care for Castiel.

Castiel is useful to have around, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Dean _likes_ having him around. There are some signs he does – Castiel’s not _blind _– but those can be feigned by anyone. And Castiel’s been taken for a fool before.

As a prince, Castiel had never been sure how he came across to others. Most were deferential because of his crown. Many because having a prince in their corner was a boon not wasted. Still more because of Castiel’s access to his father’s ear.

Meg was the first person to insult Castiel to his face and tell him he had next to no social skills. Even his father never noticed or saw fit to comment on it.

Castiel must remember he wouldn’t even be in this situation if Dean hadn’t taken pity on him and his still-recovering ankle. He wasn’t Dean’s first choice of travelling companions.

“I need my four hours,” Dean continues, “and then we’ll head out before dawn.”

The door shutting behind them sounds terribly final.

Dean spends ten minutes arguing he should sleep on the floor. Even when Castiel points out the bed is big enough for them both. It would be a tight squeeze, but they spent hours in very close proximity atop Impala already. Why would Dean draw the line here?

“B-because,” Dean stammers, as if that’s any kind of response.

Castiel stands over the bed with his arms crossed. “I fail to see the difference.”

“There just is, alright?”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

Dean throws up his hands in exasperation. “It’s fine! I’ll just take the floor.”

“The floor is disgusting. I know it’s disgusting. You know it’s disgusting. Why are you fighting me on this?”

“You get the whole bed to yourself!” Dean says loudly. “Why are you complaining?”

“Because it’s not right,” Castiel says stubbornly. “We can share.”

Dean shakes his head, muttering darkly under his breath. “Look,” he says, “If we share the bed, you’ll get my scent all over you.”

“I know that,” Castiel says, puzzled. “It is already. We spent an entire day in the same room or on the same horse.”

“Gods.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before meeting Castiel’s gaze. “I’m offering you a break, here. A breather. What’ll Meg think, huh? You forget about her already?”

“I haven’t forgotten about Meg,” Castiel says, his confusion only deepening. He squints at Dean, as if that would give him any insight. “I didn’t think her opinion was relevant.”

“Not relevant?” Dean splutters. His expression turns incredulous. "If we do share the bed – and that’s a big fucking _if _– then you should talk to her about stuff like that." His gaze drifts down to the worn collar of Castiel's shirt, lingering at the juncture where his shoulder meets his neck. "Especially if you're gonna be mating any time soon."

_ "Mating? _" Castiel repeats, utterly baffled.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, reaching up to rub the back of his neck nervously. “I figure, since you’re not living with your uncle anymore. You can, uh, mate who you want.”

“I don’t want to mate Meg,” Castiel says, feeling a little stupid this needs to be said aloud.

Dean freezes. “What?”

“We are strictly friends,” Castiel says. “Even that is a recent development.”

“Oh.”

“What did you think were?” Castiel asks, head tilting.

“You kept going on and on about your _ relationship.” _ Dean all but sneers the last word.

“Because you kept asking about it,” Castiel points out. He refrains from reminding Dean that it was only Dean himself who brought Meg up maybe twice over the past day. Evidently it made an impact. “What was I supposed to do, ignore your line of questioning?” 

Dean’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “Guess not,” he mutters eventually.

“So... bed?”

* * *

Castiel has never slept beside anyone before. He heard from some of his childhood friends they shared their parents’ beds when they had nightmares or when it stormed, but Castiel’s father and mother didn’t abide by that kind of coddling. After Castiel presented, he was expressly forbidden from having bedmates, and he was too cautious of abusing his authority to try to sneak anyone into his room past nightfall.

Castiel gingerly lies down, head resting on his folded coat.

As Dean settles next to him, Castiel can’t help the unbearable _ awareness _ his has of every inch of Dean's body. For one glorious moment, they lie side-by-side, both facing the ceiling. He can feel him breathe.

Dean glances over at Castiel once, his face unfathomable, before he turns away.

Disappointment churning deep in his gut, Castiel can't bring himself to do the same. He lays there, tracing the line of Dean's broad shoulders with his eyes. His fingers itch to reach out and _ touch _.

He inhales deeply, filling his lungs with pure, unadulterated alpha, and closes his eyes.

Dean is _ right there. _

Castiel tries to relax, folds his hands across his stomach, and clears his head. Muffled noises still drift up from the bar down below, and a horse neighs in the distance. Next to him, Dean breathes.

Castiel sighs and shifts on the bed.

Dean swallows, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet of the room. “Just go to sleep.”

“I’m trying,” Castiel grumbles.

“I can still take the floor.”

“Stop suggesting that.”

Dean turns back around, pinning Castiel in place with his sharp gaze even in the dark. “If you’re not comfortable, just say so. I can take it.”

Castiel grinds his teeth. “I am not comfortable because I have never done this before. It’s going to take some getting used to. That’s all,” he says, tacking on, somewhat untruthfully, “It would be the same with anyone.”

“You’ve never – ?”

Castiel releases a noisy exhale of air. “I was an omega noble. My primary value lay in my chastity.”

“Oh,” Dean breathes, barely audible. He swallows, and Castiel can see the way his adam’s apple bobs beneath Dean’s short beard this close to him.

Castiel raises his eyes to the ceiling, avoiding Dean’s eyes.

A minute of silence reigns, then: “I don’t think that.”

“What?”

“I, uh, don’t think your… chastity,” he grimaces at the word, “is the most important thing about you. Didn’t know you hadn’t before tonight – I thought you and Meg… you know.”

Castiel snorts. “She jokes about it sometimes, mostly to shock everyone else. She’d never try anything with me. I don’t think I’m her type.”

“But you’re everyone’s type,” Dean says before snapping his mouth shut with an audible click of teeth. He turns away, jaw clenched.

Castiel glances over at him curiously, but Dean has his face mostly angled away from him. Perhaps Dean is attracted to omegas after all. 

“How’s your leg doing?” Dean asks, a little louder than before, and Castiel shoves his previous thought away for later inspection.

“It’s fine,” Castiel says after a beat, a little confused at the abrupt change in topic.

“Good,” Dean says decisively. He turns his head to peer at Castiel. “And you’d tell me if it hurt, right? You wouldn’t just suck it up like you tried before?”

Castiel says silent.

_ “Clarence,” _ Dean says in warning.

Castiel bites his lip. “If it was debilitating, I would tell you. Of course.”

“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “If my injury risked your safety, you would be the first to know.”

_ “My safety?” _ Dean repeats, eyebrows pulling together in concern. “You’re the one with the bum leg.”

“You took me in,” Castiel reminds him, “volunteered to shepherd me to the next location, and have kept me fed and sheltered – all for curing migraines and wrapping a couple scrapes.”

Dean’s mouth pulls into a frown. “You don’t_ owe _ me for robbing you blind and all but forcing you to stay.”

“I see we recall the past two weeks very differently,” Castiel says dryly. “If you’d told me where my coin was really going, I’d have given it away of my own free will. In all honesty, I think it went to the best possible cause.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean mumbles before he turns on his side again, facing the wall. 

Castiel can tell Dean doesn’t – or can’t – believe him, but all the words at the tip of his tongue ring with empty platitudes. He keeps quiet instead and eventually falls asleep.

He dreams he’s back in his castle. His father is alive and insisting Castiel attend a lesson on swordplay. But Castiel can’t remember how to hold his weapon properly. They face off in the practice fields, but every jab and weave takes an age for Castiel to complete, like the air and ground are made of molasses. 

When Castiel looks up he’s fighting Metatron instead. 

Metatron wounds him, his face victorious.

But the slash to Castiel’s abdomen doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t bleed. Castiel doesn’t fall to the ground. Invincible, he lashes out at Metatron. Plunges his sword directly in his heart. But when Castiel looks up, he’s stabbed his father.

He wakes.

For a split second, he has a wild, illogical thought a kidnapping attempt finally worked. He’s not in his bedroom in the castle, sleeping between his goose down blanket, facing the east to see the sunrise. He’s in a dingy room that smells too strongly of aggressive alpha. A weight over his midsection pins him to the bed. 

_ Dean. _

Castiel doesn’t notice the growling in his ear until it stops. He turns his head, almost instinctively pushing out a soothing scent as his body calms down from his post-dream panic. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a moment he looks like he’s almost about to sneeze, but he relaxes behind him as the smell of Castiel’s distress fades from the air.

Dean’s eyes are still closed, and Castiel has to glance down twice to properly take in Dean’s arm slung reassuringly over Castiel’s stomach. 

Does this always happen when two people share a bed? Castiel doesn’t usually move much in his sleep, but after a rare nightmare he has awoken in the past to find all his sheets thrown into the floor. Maybe Dean was trying to restrain him and fell back asleep? There isn’t much room, and if Castiel flails about, he’d surely fall to the floor sooner rather than later.

The growling would fit, a warning to Castiel to stop moving.

Whatever the motivation, Castiel can’t deny how pleasant it is to be so completely wrapped up in Dean’s scent. Even better, Castiel can smell _ himself _ on Dean.

Castiel next awakens by a firm shake to his shoulder. Dean stands over him, already in his jacket and boots. "Get up. We gotta go," he says gruffly before turning away. 

They ride in near silence throughout the morning.

Castiel’s been in Dean’s proximity in the early morning before – has seen him snap at Sam for overnight flatulence, at Jo for talking too loudly, even at Benny for apparently nothing at all. Dean’s surliness shouldn’t hit Castiel with such disappointing surprise.

In the afternoon, their back pathway leads them through yet another wood. They stop by a shallow stream and dismount to give Impala a drink and rest. Dean pulls out a few strips of salted meat and a couple of biscuits that had seen better days. He all but drops them in Castiel’s lap before moving past him to wash up a little, his back to Castiel.

Castiel gnaws on the food, his appetite ruined by worry. Why is Dean still not talking, or, gods, even meeting his eyes?

What did Castiel do?

Castiel attempts to recapture Dean’s attention, but he stonewalls every look, every word.

They are back on the road before long, and Dean sets a punishing pace. Every question Castiel asks is blown back in his face by the wind. Dean keeps his face turned away from Castiel – no more friendly looks or half-smiles.

Defeated, all Castiel can do is hold on as they hurtle through Terra.

* * *

The forests look identical to Castiel, but Dean senses something different about this one and abruptly steers Impala off the small road they had been travelling in favor of a footpath with hardly enough room for two people to walk abreast, never mind Impala’s bulk. They slow to a trot.

Castiel, mentally and physically exhausted, hardly cares where they are. He hisses as a tree branch catches on his leg, curling it in closer to Impala’s body.

His ass and thighs had begun to ache shortly after they stopped the first time that day. Now they radiate soreness up to his hips and midway down his calves. The consequences of sitting so long in a saddle after years of no time on horseback. He shifts his weight, inhaling sharply as his ankle twinges.

“Alright?”

Castiel swallows. “Yes.”

Dean nods once, unquestioning. He steers Impala around a sharp curve.

Castiel leans into it but fumbles in righting himself again. He grips Dean’s waist harder, huffing in frustration as his lower half refuses to resettle properly.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean finally demands.

Castiel stops. His weight lies uncomfortably titled on his left side, but he hardly dares to try to adjust himself in case he sets Dean off further.

“Nothing.”

Dean makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Sure,” he mutters.

Castiel grits his teeth and tries to keep still.

His ass still hurts.

Dean releases an explosive sigh as he twists in place to shoot Castiel a glare. “What is going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Castiel repeats, his face a stone wall of indifference.

Dean grimaces, the little line between his brows deepening. “You smell off, dude. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” Castiel lies.

Dean yanks on the reins, and Impala actually comes to a stop. Surprised, Castiel lets out a whimper as his weight jolts forward with leftover momentum.

Dean’s eyes widen in alarm. “Clarence–” he starts, but Castiel cuts him off. 

“I’m fine,” he says in a hard voice. 

Dean’s face falls, his mask of indifference slipping. “Come on,” he says as he swings his leg back over Impala’s back and slides off gracefully. “My baby needs a break.”

Castiel grits his teeth and clambers to the ground. He can’t help the grunt of pain as knees and pelvis protest at the landing. He straightens to see Dean hovering by his side, his hands outstretched. Without a word, Castiel stumbles past him and sinks down on the trunk of an overturned tree. He doesn’t make a sound, but his face undoubtedly betrays some of his relief.

Dean’s mouth purses as he stands over Castiel. “You said you’d tell me if you were hurtin’.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not,” Dean says flatly as he takes a seat next to him. “Is it your leg?”

“No.”

Dean shakes his head, the corners of his lips turning up into a wry smile. “Do I need to bust out the thumbscrews? I’ll get it out of you one way or another.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel stresses stiffly for the third time, staring out into the forest, away from Dean.

He hears Dean sigh next to him. “Look, it’s just us out here. You gotta have my back. Be honest with me.”

“Because you’ve been so forthcoming all day?” Castiel retorts waspishly, turning to him with an incredulous stare.

Dean has the grace to look a little contrite. He runs a hand down his face, composing himself. “You want an explanation.”

“I deserve one, if you expect me to ‘have your back,’” Castiel quotes.

Dean lets out a humorless laugh, looking away as Castiel’s hands fall back into his lap. “Last night…” he begins, drifting off before he can say anything of note. He shakes his head.

“What happened last night?”

“I dunno,” Dean says quietly. “You tell me.”

“We had a drink at the tavern. We slept,” Castiel reports flatly. “We woke up. What am I missing?”

Dean swallows nervously. “That’s all you got?”

Castiel gestures to himself helplessly, his anger and frustration with Dean rising. “This is all new to me, Dean. I have no way of telling the insignificant from the significant. I can only go by your reactions, which are currently baffling. Have I angered you in any way? Did I misstep somewhere?”

“Gods,” Dean mutters. He turns his head towards Castiel, biting his lip. “It’s nothing you did. Trust me.”

“How can I?” Castiel demands. 

Dean snorts. “Are you always this dramatic?” 

“Are you always this infuriating?” Castiel counters, his tone sharp.

Dean draws up short before he deflates, muttering with a sigh, “Pretty much. Just ask Sam.”

“I probably will.”

Dean laughs lightly, and despite Castiel’s annoyance, something inside him unwinds at hearing the sound for the first time in too long. Dean glances at Castiel before exhaling a heavy breath. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“I have no idea what ‘it’ refers to, so yes.”

Dean makes a face. “Look, this morning… when we woke up…” he drifts off.

“Just tell me, Dean. You’ve had all day to dwell on it,” Castiel observes, his voice bone dry. “I am a patient man, but you would try a saint.”

“Sorry we don’t all work on your time, Saint Clarence,” Dean shoots back.

Castiel’s expression sours as he makes to push himself off the log. “This is a waste.”

“Hey–!” Dean reaches out, grabbing Castiel’s forearm. “You’re injured.”

“Then I hope we make it to the new camp sooner rather than later,” Castiel snaps. “Because this is excruciating. And if I have to be in pain, then I’d rather be in pain but making progress towards our destination.”

Dean shifts in place, clearly discomfited. “This morning, we were,” he hesitates for a fraction of a second, “cuddling.” He gives himself a little shudder, like he could shake the word off.

Castiel takes a moment to absorb this. When that moment fails to generate any kind of revelation or hidden meaning, he guesses, “And this is… shameful?”

Dean reddens. “Ah, no, not exactly.”

“So it… scared you?” he tries next.

_ “Clarence!” _ Dean groans.

Castiel throws up his hands. “Do I have to tell you for a second time how I understand none of this?”

“How can you not fucking get it?”

“I just don’t!” Castiel says forcefully, burning with anger and embarrassment for his ignorance. “I don’t know how I can state this any more clearly than I already have.” He swallows, face heating. “Do you know why I stayed with Meg in the first place?”

“Because you’re friends,” Dean says, looking like Castiel had shoved a whole bag of lemons down his throat.

“Because she’s my _ only _ friend,” Castiel corrects coldly. “Another reason why I was to be married off: there was nobody to speak up for me. _ I had no one. _ Until very recently I have _ never _had anyone.”

Dean’s expression turns from sullen to horrified in the blink of an eye. “Cl–”

“Don’t,” Castiel holds up a hand, unable to hear the wrong name fall from Dean’s lips. “I don’t want your pity. I just want you to understand.”

Dean gapes at him.

“Now,” Castiel says in the ensuing silence. “Please explain why cuddling with me was so terrible.”

“It wasn’t terrible,” Dean says quickly.

Castiel doesn’t bother to disguise his grimace of disbelief.

“It wasn’t,” Dean repeats firmly. “It’s just… you’d mentioned that you’d never done… anything. And when I woke up like that, I thought _ I’d _ done something. Something you didn’t want.”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “We both woke up clothed.”

Dean shakes his head. “There’s boundaries you can still cross with clothes on,” he says darkly.

“Did you?”

“I don’t think so,” Dean says, his face still troubled. “But I couldn’t ask you about it.”

Throat dry, Castiel swallows. “Why not?”

Dean shrugs his shoulders, his mouth thinning. “Dunno. Thought if I brought it up, you might say I did. Confirm what I was worrying about the whole time actually did happen.”

“That… makes no sense,” Castiel says, completely confused.

“You can see why I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Not especially.”

“Just wanted to put off the inevitable,” Dean says in a faux-casual voice.

Castiel squints at him. “It’s hardly inevitable if nothing happened.”

“But I wasn’t sure.”

“So you decided to assume it did and, instead of apologizing, act like a… assbutt?”

Dean mouths ‘assbutt’ a couple of times, looking at a loss for words, but just shakes his head. “Infuriating, remember?” He weakly attempts a smile as he points to himself.

“Infuriating,” Castiel confirms with a nod. He reaches out like he’s seen Benny and Sam do, and hesitantly pats Dean once on the shoulder. He quickly sets his hand back in his lap.

Dean slumps forward, tension erasing from his shoulders like a slate wiped clean. 

* * *

Before they get back on Impala, Castiel tells Dean about his discomfort, and Dean kindly lends him his jacket to sit on. It helps a little.

When they arrive at the new camp, Sam bounds over to Dean soon as they come into view, jogging by Impala as Dean steers her towards where Jo tied up the rest of the horses. Castiel listens with half an ear as Dean tells Sam their side trip with Charlie and Dorothy, leaving out the adventures of what happened the next night.

Everyone else has already set up their tents, including Meg, who emerges as they walk back to camp, a wide smirk overshadowing the genuine relief on her face. “Thought I’d have to find a new favorite royal,” she whispers into his ear as they embrace. “And next time I’ll take the hot alpha, and you can ride with the clingy one,” she says, tilting her head towards Garth, who also envelops Castiel in a hug.

Castiel catches Dean’s eye over Garth’s shoulder, who just shrugs, mouthing, _ “It’s Garth,” _ a little helplessly.

“You got quite a spitfire there, Clarence,” Garth says cheerfully. “Gave me and Jo a run for our money alright.”

“We had a swell time,” Meg drawls.

“Sure did!”

Castiel shakes his head, but his reply is cut off by a massive yawn.

“Long day?” Meg asks, eyebrows raised.

Castiel nods, his eyes flicking back over to Dean, currently engaged with Eileen in serious conversation as Sam stands off to side, listening in. “I am quite tired,” he concedes.

“Then let’s get you off to bed.” Meg spins him around to steer them towards the back of the camp. “Our tent’s back here. You can tell me all about it in the morning.”

Castiel nods to her gratefully as he ducks inside. Meg has already set up his pallet, and he falls onto it, fully clothed.

Meg crouches over him, hands on her hips. “You might want to take your boots off, highness.”

Castiel looks up at her, smile playing on his lips. “Isn’t that your job?”

“You haven’t paid me in weeks, so that’s a hard no.”

Castiel chuckles under his breath, groaning as he sits back up. He undoes his laces with a grimace and toes them the rest of the way off.

“Rest up, Castiel,” Meg says quietly. “I’ll be back with something to eat in a couple of hours, okay?”

He nods and closes his eyes.

He wakes up the next morning with hazy memories of Meg feeding him and joking about old times. He stumbles out of his tent, wincing as his soreness from the day before comes back in full force. Weak light diffuses through the camp at this early hour. A couple determined stars still wink through the canopy.

Ravenous and parched, he wobbles back to the center of camp, but of course nobody is awake yet. Shaking his head, he turns back the way he came, mentally preparing himself for the trek to the stream near where they dropped off Impala, but catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

Dean is lying on the ground on the opposite end of camp from where he usually sleeps with just his jacket covering him. He doesn’t appear to be shivering from the slight early morning chill or in distress, but Castiel approaches anyway to check. He nearly jumps out of his skin as Dean turns towards his approaching footsteps, his green eyes eyes wide open.

He yawns hugely. “Hey Clarence.” 

“Hello,” Castiel says in a low voice. “Is everything alright?”

“Peachy.”

“Why are you sleeping out here?”

Dean groans and rubs his eyes with his fists. “Got kicked out of my own tent. Could’a bunked with Jo, I guess, but her tent is on the smaller side, and she talks in her sleep.”

“Sam kicked you out?” Castiel asks, eyebrows drawing together in a severe line.

Dean’s lip curls. “I kind of saw myself out. Didn’t want a show.”

“Oh,” Castiel breathes. “So he and Eileen…”

“Were fucking,” Dean clarifies with a solemn nod and lewd grin. “And I didn’t want to go back and check when they were done. It’s warm enough out to spend a night like this.”

“I guess so,” Castiel says dubiously. “I’ve never slept outside before.”

“Never?” Dean asks, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small smile. “It ain’t bad most times. Especially out here where you can see the sky.”

“It is gorgeous,” Castiel says as he casts his gaze heavenward.

“Right?” Dean sighs as he rolls over on his back and just looks up. “Give me the outdoors over a musty, unclean room anyday.”

Nonplussed, Castiel reminds him, “We slept in a musty, unclean room last night.”

Dean snorts. “And look how well that turned out.”

“If you’re comfortable like this,” Castiel gestures to where Dean’s lying with a sweep of his hand, “Why did we sleep in a room at all?”

Dean sucks in a breath. He says after a beat, “But you’re not.”

“Me?”

“Yeah you,” Dean says, a touch exasperated at having to explain his apparently basic logic to Castiel. “The saddle sore ex-noble with a bum leg.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Castiel says, concerned.

Dean’s mouth gives a minute twitch beneath his beard, but Castiel can’t tell if it veers more towards frowning or smiling. “It's already happened. Forget about it."

Castiel’s lips purse. “You shouldn’t have spent your money on me.”

Dean doesn’t look the least perturbed. “The key part of that is _ my money,” _he says evenly. “I can spend it how I like.” 

Castiel doesn’t meet his gaze. “It was an unnecessary expense.”

“Was it?” Dean asks knowingly. “Why don’t you lie down next to me and try it out?”

Castiel hesitates.

“What, gonna prove me right so soon?” Dean asks as Castiel just stands there, green eyes dancing with a little bit of a challenge and no small amount of silent laughter.

“No,” Castiel says as he bends his knees. He breathes out sharply through his nose as all the joints below his waist creak in protest. His tailbone feels like he’s sitting on the pointy end of a fireplace poker instead of bed of grass.

“Yeah, you would have been just fine for whole night like this,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Stubborn bastard.”

Castiel ducks his head, amused and embarrassed all at the same time. “I could have.”

“You can do a lot of things,” Dean says, closing his eyes. “Doesn’t mean you always have to.”

* * *

Castiel’s sword flies through the air like an extension of his arm. Swipe – parry – lunge – swipe again. Castiel banks on his left foot, spinning in a tight semicircle to knock his elbow into Dean’s right wrist. Dean keeps ahold of his weapon, but only just.

The scent of frustrated alpha hangs heavy in the air, but Castiel blocks it out along with the jeers from the assembled crowd of outlaws. To his surprise, Sam and Jo root for him – or maybe they just enjoy heckling Dean – along with Kevin, Jesse, and, of course, Meg. Benny and Cesar egg on Dean. Garth can’t make up his mind or won’t, and cheers for both of them.

“Fast little fucker aren’t you,” Dean grunts.

Castiel merely shakes his head, narrowing his eyes as Dean swings his sword in a wide arc. He tries feinting left, but Dean catches on before he can take a step and blocks his attack. He circles, eyes peeled for an opening. Any opening.

“Getting tired already?” Dean asks loudly over the sounds of their little crowd of spectators.

Castiel doesn’t respond. Dean’s fingers flex on the hilt of his sword, his grip tightening. Castiel waits; if he could outwait Uriel, he can outlast Dean. Twice already, he has impulsively attacked without any hope of success. Dean will tire himself out before long, or get bored and make a mistake. And then Castiel will strike.

Castiel feints again. Dean lunges where he thought Castiel would be, but Castiel bumbles his advance. Steel clashes against steel with a wince-inducing clang.

“Gotta try harder than that, Clarence!”

Castiel exhales a slow breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He’d beaten Sam the day before, and Benny the day before that. With each win, Dean had gotten giddier and gidder. 

With three days to go before their planned ambush, Dean set the terms: beat him in one-on-one combat, and Castiel would be allowed to join their next raid.

Castiel licks his lips, tasting salt and sweat. 

Dean’s foot comes from out of nowhere, knocking him off balance. The hilt of Dean’s sword comes down, hard, on Castiel’s sternum, sending him tumbling to the ground.

Castiel retains a firm grip on his blade, even as he scrambles backwards in the dirt to his feet before Dean can take advantage. His pulse roars in his ears, louder than ever at being so close to the “killing” blow. He flips his blade in his hand, ready to hurl it at his opponent, only stopping as Dean laughs.

“Come on, can’t you just stay down?”

Castiel inwardly swears as he flips his blade again, right side up. He has to remember, they are using real weapons. Not practice swords.

“If I did, it wouldn’t be much of a fight, would it?” Castiel says eventually as they circle each other once more.

Dean grins. “He speaks!”

Castiel snaps his jaw shut.

"Aw, don't be like that!" Dean lunges without a whisper of warning. Castiel jumps out of the way. A close call. Dean attacks again, this time aiming for Castiel's left side. Castiel parries, and Dean's sword slides off course. 

"Come on," Dean taunts, "stop running away. You can't dodge me forever!" 

He goads Castiel a few more times, face reddening as Castiel refuses to attack.

Dean darts forward. But as Castiel sees his opening, Dean’s left fist comes out of nowhere and hits him squarely in the cheek.

Castiel goes down with a cry of pain and surprise.

Panting, Dean stands over Castiel with his sword pointed at Castiel’s throat. Castiel swallows, a sour taste in his mouth. He’s been in this position in front of Dean before. 

“That’s the longest anyone’s lasted in a very long time.” Dean reaches out a hand to help Castiel to his feet.

Shamefaced with defeat, Castiel merely nods as he tucks his blade back in his belt. He turns to go, intent on licking his figurative wounds in the safety of his tent, but the sparring area is surrounded by people blocking the way.

“Clarence!” Sam calls, waving him over. “That was amazing!”

“I lost,” Castiel says shortly.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Everyone loses against Dean.”

“But Dean said–”

“Dean was just messing with you,” Jo cuts in with a fleeting but reassuring smile. “Nobody can beat him – he’s pretty much the best in the kingdom.”

“The kingdom,” Castiel repeats dubiously.

Jo nods as Sam gives a one-shouldered shrug like it’s no big deal. “He defeated the old champion a while back.”

Castiel turns to stare at Dean in surprise.

Dean, the Champion of Terra? That would explain his constant clashes with the king, and why Charlie would provide endless favors. A king’s champion is supposed to be the most loyal fighter for the crown, the first line of defense against the most serious of challengers. But a rogue champion…

And Castiel had thought Dean couldn’t contain any more hidden depths.

Castiel forces his attention back to Jo and Sam. “He’s truly the Champion?” he asks, his voice hushed. 

“Ha,” Sam snorts.

Jo lets out a bark of laughter. “Not technically,” she explains. “He never took the oath.”

“Why?”

“He got into a disagreement with the King,” Sam says, wincing a little. “They haven’t been in the same room since.”

Jo adds in a steely undertone, “He would have been the youngest champion in a century. The crowning glory of King John’s reign. But of course, Dean had to go give a big _ fuck you _ to all that.”

The pair of them fall silent as Dean approaches. “Good fight,” he says as he claps Castiel bracingly on the shoulder. “Almost had me a couple of times there.”

Castiel’s mouth curls. Champion or not, Castiel had gone easy on him. “I could have beaten you.”

Dean’s hand flexes dramatically towards his holstered sword. “You wanna go again? Get your ass handed to you twice in one morning?”

“No,” Castiel says as he reaches up to touch his tender cheek. “I’m just saying, I could have won if circumstances were different.”

“Yeah, sure, Clarence. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Look,” he says as he points to a nearby tree, a little under twenty feet away. Their next meal, a half-dozen dead rabbits, hang from the lower branches, up out of reach from any predators before Benny can roast them for lunch. Castiel flips his sword in his hand so he grasps the blade, firm enough to get a good grip but loose enough not to cut himself.

“You know, you’re not supposed to hold the pointy end,” Dean points out.

Castiel raises his arm. “See the middle one?” He doesn’t wait for a reply before hurling his blade into the distance.

The rabbit’s head drops from the tree. The rest of the body swings ominously.

“It does a lot more damage if I am closer,” Castiel calls over his shoulder as he goes to retrieve his blade, buried in the trunk of another tree. He yanks it free and wipes off some of the dirt and sap on his trousers as he walks back into camp.

“Gods,” Jo says faintly as he returns.

“You almost did that move in the middle of your fight with Dean,” Sam says eagerly. “I was wondering what that meant.”

“I momentarily forgot we weren’t using practice weapons,” Castiel says apologetically. “There’s no way to disarm an opponent with that trick.”

Dean makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. Castiel looks at him curiously, but Dean doesn’t say anything, his gaze caught on the blade still in Castiel’s hand. 

“I would never hurt you, Dean,” Castiel says solemnly.

Dean blinks at him for a moment, his eyes impossibly wide and green. They compliment his rapidly reddening face. “I – yes, right. Sure. I gotta–” he stutters before abruptly turning about-face and stiffly taking off in the opposite direction.

“Did I say something wrong?” Castiel asks as he turns away from Dean’s back to resume his conversation with Jo and Sam.

Jo snickers. “Looks like little Dean needs some alone time.”

Sam shakes his head, but he looks on the verge of laughter too. “It’s not every day someone impresses Dean with swordplay.”

"Yeah, 'cause it's the swordplay that’s got him walking funny,” Jo says before dissolving into a fit of giggles.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel hesitates. “That wasn’t a side effect. I started your rut.”
> 
> Dean’s mouth works furiously. After a moment, he hisses in deadly flat voice, “Whatever the fuck you think you’re doing, it won’t work. I’ve never claimed anyone in rut, and I’m not gonna start today – especially not some bastard who thinks he can force my hand by pushing me off the edge. I’d sooner kill you. I don’t care if I’m an alpha in rut and you’re an omega. Come any closer, and I swear I’ll do it.”

Dean allows Castiel out on the next raid, but only with strict instructions to hang back and to engage if necessary. Castiel sticks to his orders, keeps to the shadows with his blade at the ready, and observes as the first string of outlaws takes down Gordon’s steward, Kubrick, and his guards. They take Kubrick for all his earthly valuables and pocket his ledger book with Gordon’s schedule.

Back at camp, Castiel patches up a bad cut on Benny’s arm and gives Lee a tonic for his new cough. Dean, Sam, and Jo retreat to organize their next attack on Gordon.

Castiel instead helps Meg with various housekeeping tasks, collecting their soiled clothing and stripping their sleeping rolls for overdue washing. 

“You know,” Meg says, standing over him with her hands on her hips as Castiel offers up a dripping shirt for her inspection. The sound of the river doesn’t let their conversation travel far. “You’re not so bad at all this stuff, Castiel. That’s definitely cleaner than anything I ever bothered with.”

“Castiel?” he echoes, eyes narrowing. She’s the one who began calling him Clarence all those years ago. She has _ never _ called him Castiel in all the time he has known her.

“It’s your name, dumbass.” She crouches next to him and grabs one of her smallclothes to wash, completely unembarrassed.

“That's never concerned you before,” Castiel says, eyebrows raising.

Meg pauses. “Before, you had a whole kingdom to remind you of who you are.”

Castiel looks down. “And now I don’t.”

“And now you just have me,” Meg corrects gently. “And I’ll be damned if I let you forget it.”

“Meg?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Meg snorts and elbows him hard enough to almost make him tip over into the river.

Castiel rolls his eyes as he rights himself. “Meg?”

“What now?”

“Are you happy here? With me? With… them?” He gestures back behind them, towards the camp.

“Sure.”

Castiel squints at her, head tilting as he regards her suspiciously. “You don’t need to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Meg says shortly. “I think I’m happy. That good enough?”

“I suppose.”

“Don’t think I’d know what it’d be like, to be honest,” Meg mumbles as she throws her wet item into the clean pile and starts on a pair of Castiel’s trousers. She scrubs, a little more forcefully than before. “Didn’t have a good time of it in Inferno. Paradiso was a better until your dickbag uncle came along. Now…” She drifts off with a shrug.

Castiel’s heart twinges. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Aw, you’re sweet,” Meg says, looking up at him. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

“Just because you tell me not to, doesn’t mean I won’t,” Castiel says frankly.

Meg laughs. “Look at you. Growing up and getting sassy on me. Almost makes me want to weep with joy.”

They finish their chore in companionable silence. Castiel insists on taking the bulk of their laundry back. Meg doesn’t make a peep of protest.

Castiel shakes his head just before they reenter the camp. “I can’t help but think this is my fault. Your connection to me at the castle made your position untenable after I left. And then you couldn’t stay on the run because I was injured.”

Meg snorts derisively. “You’re all healed up now. Do you see me going anywhere? Plus, I haven’t even gotten you into my bed yet. I can’t leave this shindig without at least one party favor.”

Castiel just shakes his head, a small smile playing around his lips. “I suppose you’re right.”

“That’s the spirit, Clarence. The day you give that up, I’ll be outta here.”

Castiel throws her a look. “That doesn’t give me much incentive to sleep with you.”

Meg grins sunnily over at him. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

* * *

Lee’s heat comes the day before they plan to take down Gordon. He had been getting over a mild cold, but Krissy comes to Castiel’s tent in the middle of the night with the news her father is throwing up and running a fever. By the time Castiel arrives, armed with a bushel of herbs, Lee won’t respond to half of Castiel’s questions. 

“I’ll get Dean,” Krissy says, wide-eyed as Castiel tries to pry Lee’s fingers from where they’ve grasped his tunic.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, turning to her in surprise. “Does he… help your father with his heats?” He tries to hide his distaste for the scenario with limited success.

“What? Ew, no,” Krissy says, grimacing. “But he should know if Dad’s down for the count tomorrow.”

Lee falls back against the cot, sweaty and flushed. He mumbles something indiscernible.

“He’ll be alright, though?” Krissy asks as she backs away, her eyes unwilling to leave her father.

“Yes,” Castiel promises as he gently touches Lee’s wrist to take his pulse. It flutters beneath his fingers, strong but fast. “He was weak before, and perhaps the stress from the illness and the excursion tomorrow brought on the heat.” Castiel shakes his head. “Sometimes these things are impossible to predict.”

“I’ll say,” Krissy mutters before she ducks out of the tent.

Castiel gets to work selecting herbs and eyeballing the right ratios. It's too late to brew a combination that will delay Lee's heat, but Castiel can whip up a solution to help with the symptoms.

Krissy comes back just as Castiel finishes preparing his heat kit. "Hey," she says, her voice quiet. Her alpha scent, spicy and youthful, mutes as she shuffles closer to her father. "Dean's outside. He, uh, says it wouldn't be smart to come in."

Castiel sighs and gets to his feet. "Probably not."

Krissy grabs Lee's hand. "I'll stay with him."

Castiel nods. "It will be a while," he says as he grabs his assembled herbs. "These need to steep, so I'll have to make a fire."

"Okay," Krissy says as she glances back at Lee's face. 

"Just make sure he drinks water," Castiel advises. "That's the best thing for him now. Even these," he holds up his fistful of plants, "are to help with his symptoms. Not end the heat. It will just have to run its course."

"Right," Krissy says resolutely. 

Castiel leaves them and nearly bumps into Dean, standing right outside the tent flaps. "Woah there," he says, his hand reaching out to grab Castiel by the upper arm to keep him steady. "Everything okay?"

"Yes. Lee won't be able to join on the raid tomorrow."

"Yeah, no shit," Dean says as he rubs at his beard, his eyes staring off into the distance.

Castiel frowns. "If you knew that, why are you here?" He adds before Dean can respond, "You won't be able to convince me he’ll be in fighting condition tomorrow."

"I wasn't going to," Dean says eyebrows raised. "I came to see you."

"Why?" Castiel asks, alarmed. "Are you falling ill too?"

"What? No! I just wanted to know if you'd be coming with us."

“Oh,” Castiel murmurs as he casts a glance back at Lee and Krissy’s tent. “It’ll depend on how Lee fares during the night.”

“So that’s a no.” Dean's mouth twists into a wry smile as Castiel doesn't challenge his statement. “Look, no, I get it.” He reaches out to briefly squeeze Castiel’s shoulder. “You’d blame yourself if anything happened to him out there.”

Castiel shoots him a grateful look. “We can continue talking, if you’d like,” he says as he raises his fistful of herbs, “But I need to boil water for these.”

Dean peers curiously at Castiel’s hands as they walk towards the firepit in the center of camp. “What’re they?”

“They’re supposed to help with his heat symptoms,” Castiel says, “increase appetite, limit slick output, minorly decrease sex drive.”

“You can do that?” Dean asks, stunned.

Castiel nods as he crouches down by the ashes. He offers Dean a strained smile as Dean helpfully hands him a piece of flint to start the fire. As Castiel encourages the spark to catch, he murmurs, conscious of the late (or early) hour, “Omegas have a number of secrets for dealing with unwanted heats.”

“I guess you guys would know best,” Dean says with a sigh. “Need anything?”

“The small pot and water, please,” Castiel says distractedly. The fire catches.

When Dean returns, he silently hands over the pot, filled halfway with water. As Castiel settles it by the flame, Dean asks, his voice barely audible, “Is there any way to stop it?”

Castiel snorts. “No,” he says. “Heats are more or less inevitable.”

“Less?” Dean repeats hopefully. “So there is a way?”

"Death.”

Dean shoots Castiel a disgruntled look. “Yeah, that's not an option.”

“Clearly.” Castiel turns to him. "Heats are incredibly powerful. A bad one can even burn off most illnesses – the mating drive is so strong. Will you postpone the raid tomorrow?”

Dean heaves a weighty sigh. “We can’t. Gordon will be moving a quarter of his gold tomorrow. We’d have to wait another year for tax season to roll around, and who knows what kind of shit he could get up to in the meantime.”

Castiel’s heart sinks. “You’ll be down two men.”

“Yeah, thanks, I hadn’t thought of that.” Dean’s tone tells Castiel quite plainly, _ yes, he has thought of that. _

Castiel ducks his head. “I’m sorry.”

Dean doesn’t speak for a moment. “Don’t be,” he says gruffly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just fucking terrible timing. And you’re doing your best with Lee. Without you, it’d only be Krissy and Kevin, and Krissy’s an alpha so she has no idea what the fuck she’s doing and Kevin… well, he’s an anxious little guy.”

Castiel concedes Dean’s point with a dip of his head. 

“Anyway,” Dean says as he hauls himself to his feet with a grunt. “I’ll go wake up Sam and Jo with the change of plans. Just… make sure Lee doesn’t bite it.”

Castiel says, deadpan, “Very few omegas die from strenuous heats. At the most, there have been serious cases of dehydration or excessive anal chaf–”

_ “Right,” _Dean says loudly as he backs away. “No mortal danger. Got it.”

The smile threatening Castiel’s serious expression vanishes entirely as he watches Dean flee. If tomorrow goes badly, he’ll never forgive himself for staying behind. 

* * *

At the first sound of rapid hoofbeats, Castiel's heart jumps into his throat. One horse, not the five that left that morning. Whoever is coming approaches too quickly for a victor’s homecoming.

"Clarence!"

Sam. 

Not Dean.

Castiel nearly flies out of Lee's tent, almost tripping over his feet as he stops in front of a snorting Impala. Sam hops off her back, his face white with terror. Jaw clenched, he reaches up and gently lowers Dean's body so his feet touch the ground.

Castiel moves to shoulder the bulk of Dean's weight from Sam without conscious thought.

"What happened to him?" Castiel demands as they limp toward Dean and Sam's tent.

"Three of Gordon's guards," Sam growls, his voice full of hatred. "They went right for him – it was like the rest of us were window dressing. Gordon put up one hell of a fight too, so we all had our hands full."

They set Dean down on his bed. He doesn't stir.

Castiel takes his blade and begins slicing off Dean's shirt with his blade, telling Sam without looking up, "I need clean water, the herbs beside my bedside, and all the bandages you can find."

Sam leaves without another word. 

“Dean?” Castiel tries as he starts to push aside the ruins of Dean’s shirt. 

Dean breathes. Shallowly. 

Castiel bites his lip as he inspects Dean’s body for the most immediate interventions. A gash on his abdomen bleeds sluggishly – nothing vital was hit. Castiel lets that be until he can clean it. A sizeable graze just under his ribs bleeds steadily. Every revealed inch of skin is covered by blood or bruise.

Castiel sucks in a horrified breath as he removes the last of Dean’s shirt, tacky and stiff with blood, dirt, and who knows what else. Up near his left shoulder, just above his heart, the stabbing is large and deep. Blood pulses out of the wound in time with Dean’s thrumming heartbeat.

Sam returns not a moment too soon.

“We need to clean him,” Castiel says, his voice hoarse. “Apply pressure here,” he says, pointing to the worst one. “Try to stem the bleeding.”

Sam, his face impossibly grim, does as he’s told.

A heavy silence falls between them as Castiel wipes down Dean’s chest, his spirits sinking with every revealed scrape and discoloration. He hisses out an involuntary breath of sympathy as he washes away the blood on Dean’s right side to reveal an enormous midnight-purple bruise the width of his palm. Castiel gingerly feels around the area, ruling out broken ribs but not fractures.

He meets Sam’s wary gaze as he finishes. For a brief moment, both of them stare at Dean’s battered body laid out before them.

“I know this’ll need stitches,” Sam says in a hard voice as he lifts his hands to check if the wound in Dean’s upper chest has stopped bleeding.

“Meg!” Castiel shouts as he rifles through the bundle of herbs Sam brought. Off go the stems of comfrey and marigolds. He throws some horsetail in for good measure.

She arrives as he grinds it all together with a little water. “You called, Clarence?”

“Get your needle and thread,” Castiel says, his tone booking no argument.

She makes a disgusted face but nods.

“I can do it,” Sam says into the quiet as Meg ducks back out as quickly as she came. “I’ve done it before. I have a steady hand.”

Castiel tends to Dean’s less severe wounds. He packs in the herb paste and bandages them tightly. When Meg returns, Castiel takes the kit from her with a silent nod of thanks. “Keep an eye out for everyone else.”

“You sure you don’t need me?” she asks, eyeing Dean critically.

“I’ll let you know if the situation changes.”

“You got it.”

Castiel turns back to Sam and and holds up the kit. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Sam just nods, his expression blank. He deftly threads the needle but pauses, the tip resting a hair's breadth away from Dean’s skin. On a long exhale, he pushes it in. True to his claims, Sam's hands don’t shake.

“You have done this before,” Castiel says quietly as he watches Sam dispassionately take care of his brother. 

Sam gives him a stiff nod. “Dad didn’t like calling on the physician if he could help it. He thought it would toughen us up if we could take care of ourselves.”

Castiel’s hands freeze, his opinion of Dean and Sam's father sinking even lower. “Dean said he was part of the reason you do all this.”

Sam shrugs. “Dean’s the real reason we do all this,” he says, his voice quiet. “If it wasn’t for him, we’d both be back there, thumbs up our asses as the kingdom rots from the inside.”

“This was his idea?”

Sam swallows. “Kind of. I just wanted to get out. Dean provided a direction, I guess.”

Castiel looks to Dean’s still face. “You’ve accomplished so much.”

“We do what we can,” Sam says evenly, his anger simmering just below the surface. “It’s not enough, but it’s never enough.”

Castiel knows that feeling all too well. 

Sam sits up as he ties off the thread. “Hand me the bandages?”

“Salve first,” Castiel says shrewdly as he inspects Sam’s tight, if uneven stitches. He scrapes up the last of the herbs and slathers them generously over Dean’s wound, all but hiding it from view. Sam says nothing as Castiel hands him the bandages.

“Why isn’t he waking up?”

Castiel bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. He feels for Dean’s pulse, still too quick for a man lying down, and touches his forehead. “An infection might cause unconsciousness, but not usually this soon after the injury.” He sits back, at a loss. “Blood loss, maybe.”

Sam makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “I told him we should have waited. Payoff would have been smaller, but we would’ve been safer. But _ no, _ we had to nail Gordon to wall today. And no surprise, our strategy was shot to shit before we even left.”

The guilt that had fluttered around Castiel’s chest since he heard Impala return settles restlessly in the pit in Castiel’s stomach. Unable to look at Sam or Dean, his gaze fell to his lap. “Did you get him? Gordon?”

Sam snorted. “Yeah. By the time I got to Dean, Jo had him cornered. Benny had to hold her back from taking out his knees.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Barely.”

They sit in silence for a moment, both of them waiting on tenterhooks for any change in Dean’s condition. Voices drift in from outside, and Castiel has no idea when the rest of the raiding party returned.

Sam winces as he hears his name being called. But he doesn’t have the chance to respond before Jo pokes her head into the tent, grimacing at the pair of them. “How’s he doing?” she asks breathlessly.

“Not good,” Sam says bluntly.

Jo takes a cautious step inside, her eyes wide and mouth thinning. “I saw him fall,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “How bad is he?”

“We’re not sure,” Castiel says reluctantly. “He’s not waking up.”

Jo’s eyes harden. “That’s a good sign,” she says flatly.

Castiel glances back at Dean. “No, it’s not.”

Jo shoots Castiel an incredulous look, but before she can say anything, Sam lays a hand on her arm. “How is everybody else?”

Jo slowly turns back to him. “Fine, I guess. None are as bad as our fearless leader, here. We can take care of it.”

Sam runs a weary hand through his hair. “That’s good news, at least.”

“It doesn’t help Dean much, though,” Jo says derisively.

Sam gives his brother a long look. “He’ll pull through,” he says in a firm voice.

“I don’t–” Castiel starts, but changes direction after a warning look from Jo, “I think he will pull through, yes.”

Jo snorts darkly at his poor backtracking and shakes her head. “I’ll go let everyone know,” she says to the pair of them. “You don’t need the hoards trampling through here to see him. Let me know if he wakes up."

“Of course,” Sam assures.

As Jo leaves, Castiel checks Dean’s pulse again. It’s even quicker now. His wrist feels hot. He shuffles up near Dean’s head and opens one of his eyes. Black pupils blown wide stare out, unseeing.

“Sam, what do you know of poisons?” Castiel asks, fighting to keep his voice calm.

Sam’s jaw clenches. "Enough."

"Do you think–?" Castiel lays a hand on Dean's forehead. It comes away slick with sweat. "He's not improving."

"What could it be?" Sam asks.

Castiel shakes his head. "I can't be sure. It's not belladonna or aconite, but there are a fair number of other possibilities. And," he adds, "if there is an infection, it'd be impossible to distinguish which symptoms come which."

Sam swears. "And we can't go to a physician – Gordon will be on the lookout if his guards poisoned their weapons on his orders."

Castiel nods. He doesn't know much at all about poisons, since not many people saw the need to kill the standard patients of his castle physician – Castiel and his father being the notable exceptions. Even then, there was little point in teaching Castiel to recognize specific poisons since Castiel was hardly expected to whip up the antidote himself. 

Next to him, Sam broods, equally helpless. 

The tent flaps rustle, and Krissy pokes her head in. "Clarence?" she asks, her mouth falling open as she sees Dean, prone on his cot. "What the hell? I knew he was–"

"Krissy," Sam cuts her off, his voice stressed. His nostrils flare at the smell of her father's heat she carries on her, so powerful it practically masks her own alpha scent. "Is it urgent? Now's not a good time."

"What? Oh, yeah," Krissy says, her expression growing somber. "I just came by to tell Clarence my dad's awake and seems fine."

"Right," Castiel says distantly, a solution forming in his mind as he stares at her. As Krissy's words register, he gives his head a little shake. "Right," he repeats. "That's very good."

"I'll, uh, just go."

Castiel waits until she leaves to ask Sam, "When was the last time Dean went into rut?"

Sam frowns. "He's not in rut, trust me."

"I know that," Castiel brusquely, waving off Sam's words impatiently, "but I could start it early. If his rut is strong enough, it could counter whatever poison or infection he has in his system."

"Oh," Sam says eyes wide. "I think the last one was maybe two months ago? Between two or three."

Castiel studies Dean's face. Ruts and heats come twice a year. It would be best if Dean was closer to his biological cycle, but Castiel doesn't have much of a choice. With a determined intake of breath, he gets up. "I'll be right back."

* * *

“Are you sure about this?” Meg asks as Castiel measures out the last ingredient.

Castiel swallows. “I’m sure.”

Meg shakes her head, eyes flashing. “You’re being stupid. Have you ever done this before?”

“No.”

“Sometimes your martyr complex is a real drag.”

Irritation spiking, Castiel mutters, “You can leave any time, Meg.”

She snorts. “I leave and you’ll be knocked up, dead, or captured in a week. Guaranteed.”

He brings the bowl up to eye-level for inspection, nose wrinkling at the smell. “Hand me the vinegar.”

“Get it yourself.”

Castiel sets the bowl down, pestle clanking at the force. “If you can’t keep your tongue to yourself, you can see your way out,” he thunders at her.

Meg throws him an imperious look, uncowed. “I’m staying because you need to hear what I’m saying.” She crossing her arms across her chest. “I get that you like Dean. What’s not to like? Big strong alpha like that even gets me all dewy down there. But there are plenty of alphas out there who can watch him when he’s dangerous. _ It doesn’t have to be you.” _

“Yes, it does.” Castiel reaches for the vinegar.

“Get Sam to do it.”

“He won’t recognize the right signs.”

“And you will?” Meg asks, incredulous. “You barely know more than he does!”

Castiel doesn’t have a response to that. Instead, he reaches for the yarrow he has clipped to the walls of his tent. 

Meg releases an explosive exhale. “What if Dean attacks you?”

“I can defend myself.”

“I don’t think he can take any more stabbings,” Meg says shrewdly. “Apparently the human body has a limit for that sort of thing.”

“There are other ways.”

“By giving in to his rut?” Meg asks, her face red with anger. 

Castiel glares up at her. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Meg asks with a laugh devoid of humor. “You’re in way over your head and you don’t even know it. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Castiel feels around for the water jug he keeps by his bedside. 

“If you fuck this up, we’ll have to leave,” she tries.

“I won’t fail.”

“You're so confident.”

Some of the water splashes on the rim of the bowl. “I have to save him, Meg. There is no other choice.”

Meg’s eyes narrow, watching as Castiel’s mush of herbs thins into a viscous liquid. “You may want him now,” she says, her voice eerily devoid of her usual snark or caustic affection. “But what if you change your mind halfway through? Once he’s trapped with you in that state… he won’t be able to stop himself. Do you have any idea what it’ll do to _ him _ if things go sideways like that? Once he comes back to himself?”

He sets down his bowl. “What are you saying?”

She swallows, her gaze pointedly directed at the bowl in Castiel’s lap. “That it takes two to tango. Just because you’re willing to sacrifice yourself doesn’t mean he’ll appreciate it on the other side. In fact, from what you’ve told me about Dean, I’m sure he won’t.”

Castiel freezes, his eyes widening as he catches her closed-off expression. She doesn’t sound like she’s talking about hypotheticals. He inhales a sharp breath, asking quietly “Meg, what happened?”

Her mouth falters as she struggles for the right words. “Back, years ago in Inferno, I–” she breaks off, licking her lips. She starts again, “An acquaintance of mine, an omega, went into heat. She didn’t tell me about it, didn’t give me any fucking notice, just turned up one day smelling like true love and fluffy puppies.” She clasps her hands tightly in her lap, avoiding Castiel’s gaze. “My rut was due the next week, and long story short, it came early.”

Castiel blinks at her, ice freezing in his veins. “Please tell me you didn’t...”

“Sure did,” Meg breathes, shoulders hunching in on herself. “She said she wanted it, of course, but she would’ve given up all her land and gold for a good fuck. And in the back of my mind, I knew she wasn’t right in the head, but I d-didn’t care.” Meg shakes her head jerkily. “And lucky me, Lady Cecily was a favorite of King Crowley, so I got what was coming to me the moment my rut was over.”

“Rut?” Castiel echoes as he blinks at her in confusion. “But you’re a beta.”

“Not exactly,” Meg says wryly. “Did you know sterilized alphas smell like betas to everyone else?”

“I…” Castiel drifts off, horrified.

“Don’t worry, I did that part myself,” Meg says with forced airiness. Her hands flex in her lap before she gets to her feet. Her eyes dart around their tent, anywhere but at Castiel. “Anyway, that’s my take on this gods-damned plan of yours. I’m not gonna stick around for the show, so come get me when it’s all over. If you want.”

“Meg!” Castiel calls after her, but she doesn’t turn back around as she leaves.

Castiel takes a moment to compose himself. Meg had revealed tidbits about her past before, sly asides dropped here and there. But they never came together to paint a full picture. After she woke Castiel up from one of his rare nightmares, she had divulged she often suffered from the same – dreams of being frozen in impenetrable darkness, walls pressing in on her from all sides.

Since they entered Terra, they’d been sleeping side-by-side in the same tent, and she’d never indicated the nightmares followed her from the castle. Castiel had nearly forgotten they had happened at all.

He glances down at the finished rut potion in lap. Slowly, he pours it into a vial for Dean and searches for any leftover heat-delaying solution for himself. His last heat was right before they escaped Metatron, but clearly Castiel can’t be too careful.

* * *

Twenty minutes have passed since Castiel poured the rut potion down Dean’s throat. He sniffs the air surreptitiously, conscious of Sam sitting right next to him in silence. 

Dean groans.

“Dean?” Sam says at once, his voice hopeful but cautious.

“I think his rut is starting,” Castiel murmurs. 

“Yeah?”

Castiel licks his lips. “You can’t smell it?”

Sam’s nose wrinkles. “A little, I guess? It just smells like _ Dean _ in here.”

“Which should tell you something,” Castiel points out. “You live here too. But I can hardly tell from scent alone.”

Sam nods in agreement at that before he turns back to stare at Dean, brows furrowed. “Do you think this will work, bringing on his rut? It won’t kill him, right?”

“I think it will work,” Castiel says with more confidence than he feels. “There’s a very good chance.”

“Better than nothing,” Sam mutters. He runs an anxious hand through his hair. “Anything we should be doing now?”

“Just monitoring him,” Castiel sighs as he leans forward, resting his chin in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. “It’s mostly up to Dean now.”

Sam sighs. “He’s always been a fighter.”

Castiel closes his eyes, and in the darkness, he can almost feel Dean’s scent growing stronger, settling like a too-hot blanket on his skin. He shivers. “Does he typically have partners for his rut?”

Sam won’t meet his gaze. “Most times.”

“Is there anyone we can call?”

Sam shakes his head. “He usually goes to the local brothel, to be honest.”

Castiel turns back to Dean, raising his hand to feel his forehead. He flinches as Dean’s nostrils flare, scenting his wrist as he moves closer.

“Did you see that?” Sam asks eagerly.

Castiel nods, lips pressed tight together as he withdraws. “He’s definitely in the first stages. But we won’t know if it’s working until he wakes up. Increased heartbeat, dilated pupils, and a higher temperature could all be symptoms of the poison.”

Although Castiel has been up the whole night, a sort of manic energy courses through him the longer he sits at Dean’s bedside. All his senses are lit up and attuned to the Alpha. He can’t resist taking deep lungfuls of air, trying to discern the slightest change in Dean’s scent. His gaze is drawn to Dean like a magnet, only flickering briefly to Sam if he speaks, and even then, he mostly stares at Dean. 

Meg’s warning still rings resonant in his mind, but he can almost feel every additional minute with Dean wear away at his unbiased judgment... if he had any to begin with.

Sam stands up and Castiel nearly falls over in surprise after sitting for so long in the same standstill silence. “I can’t do this,” he says, pained. “I need a break. Look, I’ll go let everyone else know what’s going on with Dean.”

“That’s fine,” Castiel says. He adds a bit uselessly, “I’ll be here.”

“I’ll be back, though,” Sam promises as he leaves. “I just need a breather.”

The tent flaps swing behind him, allowing with the barest hint of a breeze before Dean’s potent scent surrounds Castiel completely once again. 

Dean doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t make a sound.

Outside, Sam tries to gather everyone together for his announcement.

Castiel listens for a moment with bated breath, poised to move at the slightest sign anyone is approaching the tent. “Gods, please wake up,” he prays before ducking his head down, laying his bare throat and scent gland right by Dean’s nose. He doesn’t dare inhale.

Dean sucks in a ragged breath.

Castiel sits bolt upright, pulse racing in his veins as he waits for another sign. He cautiously breathes in, swallowing and tasting the air. Dean’s pungent rut scent hits him like a gale force wind to the face. He coughs, eyes watering.

Eyes closed, senses overwhelmed, Castiel almost misses the way Dean lunges for him. He jumps out of the way, but Dean’s grasping hands don’t have the chance to touch him before the Alpha doubles over, groaning.

“Dean?” Castiel tries after a second.

Dean just shakes his head, his face screwed up in pain. Castiel can smell the distress and confusion wafting off him like an incoming tidal wave. Without a word, Castiel pours a cup of water and hands it over. Dean drains it, hands trembling. 

Castiel raises the water jug. “Would you like another?”

Dean’s jaw clenches as he shakes his head. 

“You need more fluids,” Castiel says, his voice strained, as he leans over to take the cup back. “Your fever – _ Dean!” _ He scrambles to keep his balance as Dean grabs him, successfully this time.

Dean shoves his nose in the junction between Castiel’s neck and shoulder, inhaling deep as his fingers lock around his upper arms like ten steel bands. “Omega,” he murmurs against Castiel’s skin. “Smell so good for me.”

Castiel releases an involuntary whimper, his instincts falling in line before he can muster up rational defenses. Dean clings on tighter. His beard scratches against the exposed area above the neckhole of Castiel’s shirt. But the scent of Dean’s rut is still _ off. _It makes Castiel’s nose tingle unpleasantly in the same way that had sent him into a coughing fit.

“Dean,” he repeats more firmly this time as Dean lets go only for his hand to drift down Castiel’s body. _ “Stop!” _

Dean ignores him. His fingers impatiently toy with the waist of Castiel’s pants. With a breath hot like live cinders, he drawls, “Gonna make you feel so good. Fill you up with–”

Castiel digs two fingers right into the center of the massive bruise covering Dean’s ribs. Dean’s filthy words cut off with a gasp as he recoils in pain.

Castiel steps back, almost but not quite out of reach, his panic practically flooding the air between them._ “Dean,” _ he tries for the fourth time.

Dean looks up at him, the scent of his rut spiking impossibly higher as their eyes meet. “What the fuck is happening to me?” he asks, his voice wrecked. 

“Gordon poisoned you,” Castiel quickly explains.

Dean’s flushed face pales the barest fraction. “What the fuck kind of poison starts my rut?”

Castiel hesitates. “That wasn’t a side effect of the poison. I started it.”

Dean’s mouth works furiously. Nearly apoplectic, he barks, _ “Why the fuck would you do that?” _

Castiel can’t hold back his involuntary cringe in the face of an irate alpha. 

Dean’s eyes flash, and he seizes on his advantage. He hisses, his voice deadly flat with anger, “Whatever the fuck you think you’re doing, it won’t work. I’ve never claimed anyone in rut, and I’m not gonna start today – especially not some bastard who thinks he can force my hand by pushing me off the edge. I’d sooner kill you. I don’t care if I’m an Alpha in rut and you’re an Omega. Come any closer, and I swear I’ll do it.”

Castiel swallows thickly, his face burning. “I – I didn’t start your rut early hoping you’d claim me,” he starts, hands balled at his side. “The poison... I couldn’t identify it. Neither could Sam. This was the best way I could think of to burn it out of your system without the antidote.”

Dean freezes, his mouth falling open.

Castiel retreats to Sam’s abandoned bed, not quite a safe distance away, but out of Dean’s arms length. He can’t meet Dean’s gaze, so he focuses on the livid bruising across Dean’s chest. Shakily, he says, “Sam is outside updating everyone on your condition. When he comes back, he will resume your caretaking responsibilities.”

Dean inhales sharply, the anger in his expression giving way to displeasure. He can probably smell Castiel’s distress, but he doesn’t comment on it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “If there was any other way, I would have pursued it.”

“Clarence.”

Castiel drags his gaze up to meet the Alpha’s. Every inch of him feels hot all over. His gut churns with a loathsome mixture of guilt, embarrassment, and arousal. Guilt, that he had to do this to Dean in the first place. Embarrassment, that Dean could think him capable of the kind of manipulation. Arousal, because despite it all, Dean’s scent still calls to him.

“If you need more water, there’s some by your bed,” Castiel says after an excruciatingly long pause, pointing to where he set the water jug down.

With a wary glance at Castiel, Dean tries to bend over to reach for it but jerks back upright, hissing in pain.

Castiel is on his feet and by Dean’s side before his brain catches up with his legs. He takes a deliberate step back, hands clasped tightly in front of him. “If you need assistance, I can help,” he says haltingly.

Dean sighs, shoulders hunching in on himself. “Yeah, sure. Help away.” He breathes in a couple deep lungfuls of air, some of the tension easing from behind his eyes.

Castiel tentatively picks up the water jug and waits for Dean to hold out the cup he had dropped when he grabbed Castiel the first time.

“Look, Clarence,” Dean starts as Castiel pours, “I’m sorry. I should’ve known you wouldn’t do start my rut without a good reason.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says stiffly. He sets the water jug down, this time on the bed by Dean’s side. He seems lucid enough to keep it from toppling over. With a few hurried steps of retreat, the backs of his knees hit Sam’s bed.

“No, it’s not,” Dean says with surprising strength. “I’m not gonna attack you. You don’t have to stay all the way over there.”

“I prefer it over here.”

“You’re lying. I can smell it.”

“I am not,” Castiel lies.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “You’re the worst liar ever.”

Castiel frowns. He sincerely hopes not, or he’s been far closer to discovery the entire time he’s been on the run. 

Dean grimaces and adjusts himself in his pants, a small smirk spreading across his face as he catches Castiel averting his gaze. “You wanna help me out or not?”

Castiel’s heart flies up to his throat. “Excuse me?” he chokes out, more than a little thrown by Dean’s sudden change of mood.

“You said you wanna help,” Dean says, eyebrows waggling. “So I’m letting you.”

Castiel shakes his head with difficulty. “It’s the rut talking,” he says, and he isn’t sure if he’s telling Dean this or trying to remind himself. “A minute ago, you were ready to kill me.”

“That’s ‘cause I thought you were messing with me,” Dean says almost lazily as he palms his clothed cock again. “Now I know you’re just a good guy.”

Castiel swallows. “I’m really not,” he rasps, his throat unbearably dry.

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks before he licks his lips. “Prove it. Help me out here. I’m dyin’.” 

“You are not dying,” Castiel says, and he has to hold his breath for a second of clarity as Dean’s scent seems to double in potency. Gone are all traces of anger or upset - replaced by pure, unadulterated lust, enough to send Castiel’s head spinning. 

“You sure, Omega?”

“Don’t call me that.” 

Dean blinks, taken aback.

Castiel presses his lips together, burying his head in his hands. The words are on the tip of his tongue, _ Castiel, my real name is Castiel. _He holds them back. Instead, he tells Dean, “I’m more than an omega.”

“I know,” Dean says, his tone almost warm.

And gods help him, Castiel believes him. Even in this state, when he’d do almost anything to find a willing hole for his knot. Meg was right. This is dangerous, both for him and Dean.

He gets up. “I need to get Sam.”

“Hey, wait, no you don’t!” Dean says loudly as Castiel edges further away. “We were just getting to the good part!”

Castiel sighs. “There will be no ‘good part,’” he says with more confidence than he feels. He reaches for the tent entrance, but a firm grip on his upper arm stops him.

“What–”

“Shh,” Dean says, his breath ghosting the shell of Castiel’s ear. He steps closer.

Castiel can feel the heat of the Alpha’s whole body flush against him. Floored, Castiel tries to turn around, get some space between them, but Dean’s like a solid wall at his back.

“How are you standing up?” Castiel asks stupidly.

“I just want you that bad,” Dean whispers, and now there are lips pressing against the tender skin below Castiel’s ear, travelling lower, down his neck.

Castiel says in a strangled voice, “You’re going to injure yourself. You can’t–”

“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do,” Dean says, his voice carrying a hint of steel before nips at Castiel’s pulse point. 

Dean might be the one still working poison through his system, but Castiel is dying.

“I should get Sam.” Castiel attempts to shake off Dean’s grip, but he might as well be fighting off a statue. 

“He’ll just ruin it.”

“You’re not in your right mind.”

“You talk too much.”

Desperate, Castiel calls out, “Sam!”

Without any warning, Dean’s hand comes down on Castiel’s mouth as he bucks his hips forward, grinding his erection against Castiel’s ass. Castiel moans, the sound muffled. With Castiel sufficiently subdued, Dean switches to scenting Castiel’s other side, nosing at the hinge of his jaw and mumbling more filthy words against his skin. His hand slips down from Castiel’s mouth, down his chin, to rest against his throat.

Sam bursts into the tent.

Castiel squashes the part of him disappointed by the interruption. He sucks in a hasty gulp of air, for once catching the scent of something other than Dean’s rut. The calluses from Dean’s hand rasp against his tender skin.

“Dean?” Sam asks, nearly tripping over the pair of them in shock.

“Not now, Sammy.” His hold on Castiel tightens, and possessive pheromones fill the air between them, like the smell alone could drive Sam back out. 

“You’re awake,” Sam observes unnecessarily, nose wrinkling at the change in scent.

“Awake and horny as fuck. Get out.”

Sam shakes his head, blinking as if he’s seeing that Castiel is between him and his brother for the first time. “Gods, Dean,” he says in an undertone as he looks Castiel up and down, his eyes lingering at Dean’s hold on Castiel’s arm and the hand at his throat.

“The door is that way, man,” Dean says pointedly.

Sam takes a step forward. Dean growls in warning. “Back off. He’s mine.”

Before Sam can react, Castiel snaps. He doesn’t belong to _ anybody_. He elbows Dean in the ribs, only slightly pulling back at the last second. It’s enough to get Dean to let him go.

Breathing harshly, Dean doubles over in pain, rage in his eyes as he watches Castiel retreat behind Sam. “Get back here.”

“No,” Castiel says resolutely. “You’re out of control. Sam will help you.”

Dean bares his teeth, an animalistic noise rumbling from the back of his throat. The scent of territorial alpha rises. Sam’s shoulders stiffen uncomfortably, but he doesn’t move an inch. “Go,” he murmurs out of the corner of his mouth. “I got this.”

Castiel flees.

* * *

Castiel finds his own tent thankfully empty. He scents the air, only tasting the faintest sign of himself and nothing of Meg at all. He collapses onto his cot and falls asleep instantly.

Hunger wakes him an indeterminable time later. To his dismay, dinner must have ended some time ago. When he ventures outside, he finds Benny's usual setup clean and stowed out of sight. Castiel can make out a few shapes in the dark, but there's no moon tonight, and the fire was probably banked shortly after dinner was made not to attract unwanted attention from the smoke and light. 

Castiel wanders in between the tents, debating his options. 

Sam finds him before he can make up his mind. "Clarence!" he calls in a hushed whisper, conscious of the late hour. 

"Hello Sam."

"Hey," Sam says, a little more than a looming outline in the dark. "All rested?"

"More or less." To Castiel's mild embarrassment, his stomach growls. "Apologies. I seem to have missed dinner."

"It's fine," Sam says with a light chuckle. "I think I can help. Dean keeps emergency stashes in our tent. If you don't mind venison jerky, you're welcome to have some."

"How is Dean doing?" Castiel asks anxiously. 

Sam doesn't answer at once. "Not well," he says with obvious reluctance. 

Castiel's brow furrows. "Has his condition deteriorated?"

"You could say that," Sam says. "He won't listen to me or Benny. Won't drink. Won't rest. I thought he was a bad patient before, but this is something else. He, uh, keeps trying to get to you."

"Me?" 

"The last omega he scented," and Castiel can hear the apologetic tone in Sam's voice. 

"Oh."

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "We're working on it. If Benny has to sit on his legs to get him to sit still, then he will."

"It won't come to that," Castiel says resolutely. "Let's go."

"What?" 

"I'm going to help Dean," he says as he starts off in the direction of his rent. 

Sam catches up with two long strides. "I told you, me and Benny are dealing with him."

"If he isn't eating, drinking, or sleeping, then you aren't doing a good enough job," Castiel says bluntly. He ducks into the tent, Sam swift on his heels. 

"Clarence–!"

"Woah there," Benny says in surprise as he automatically reaches out a hand to restrain Dean, already half on his feet at Castiel's abrupt entrance. 

The tent reeks of Dean’s rut, unpleasant in its potency. It’s stronger than the last time Castiel was by Dean’s side, but the undercurrent of the Alpha’s distress and pain lets Castiel keep his head on straight, temporarily overrides the desire to mate.

"Omega," Dean murmurs, and Castiel dismays at the glassy sheen to his eyes. He strides forward, hardly breathing to keep a clear head, and raises a hand to check Dean's forehead. Fever, worse than before. Hotter than a standard rut temperature. His skin looks sallow, even in the dim lamp light illuminating the interior of the tent, and his lips are chapped and close to cracking.

"Oh, Dean," Castiel says as he drops his hand. 

"He's going to be okay, right?" Sam asks, and now Castiel can see the toll of the day has taken on him too. His hair hangs lanky about his face, falling oddly like Sam has been running his hands through it continuously since Castiel last saw him. 

"Yes," Castiel promises. "Benny," he says in an even voice, "let go of Dean."

"You sure?" Benny asks, eyebrows raised. "He might not be gentle with you, brother."

"Speaking from experience?" Castiel gestures to a new black eye blooming on the left side of Benny's face. 

"Chief got a lucky shot in," Benny says with an admirable attempt at good humor. Castiel can still hear the undercurrent of worry in his voice, and see it in the way Benny glances at Dean as he speaks. 

Dean, uncharacteristically silent, continues to stare up at Castiel, as if Benny and Sam aren’t in the tent at all.

"I'll be fine,” Castiel tells the Alphas. “He doesn’t want to fight me."

To Castiel's surprise, Benny doesn't need any more convincing than that. He gets up from the squat stool at Dean's bedside.

Before Dean can protest, Castiel takes Benny’s vacated spot. "You two should rest," he says. "I can take care of him for the rest of the night."

Sam's face hardens. "Take care of him how?"

"By giving him what he needs," Castiel says simply. Next to him, Dean whines, leaning over so he can bury his nose in the junction between Castiel's neck and shoulder. Castiel lets him.

Sam crosses his arms across his chest, his face settling into a forbidding expression. “You can’t let him claim you.” 

“I wasn’t going to,” Castiel, curious despite himself. Dean had a similar reaction, though it manifested in shouting rage. Very unlike Sam’s ominous promise of violence if things don’t go his way. “Rut instincts aren’t completely focused on carnal mating,” he says, a little surprised that Sam, an alpha himself, doesn’t know this. “They can be directed elsewhere too.”

“You aren’t going to make him run laps, are you?” Benny asks, eyebrows raised. “He’d pass out, sure, but I don’t think he’d get up again either.”

“No, I’m not going to exhaust him,” Castiel says. “Above all, he wants to take care of a mate. Normally this happens though intercourse because that’s the easiest and fastest way. But there are other methods – feeding, nesting, that sort of thing.”

“Aren’t those omega traits, though?” Sam asks as his brooding shoulders lose a small bit of tension.

“Are they?” Castiel asks wryly. “Alphas are said to be natural providers. The breadwinners of the alpha-omega dyad.” Sam nods along, all of this familiar. “But exactly are they providing? Shelter and sustenance are the most essential needs for human survival. Hence, instincts to feed and nest. But these specifics don’t fit in the classic alpha paradigm, so somehow society has shunted them to the omega side, even though they are equally present in alphas.”

Sam just blinks at him.

Benny doesn’t look surprised in the slightest. “I always got a lot of shit for being in the kitchen, but that place felt a lot more like home than by the forge or in the stables,” he says with a shrug.

“I’ve got this,” Castiel says gently. He turns to Sam. “If you want to take my tent, I don’t think Meg would mind. I can watch Dean for the rest of the night.”

Sam glances once at Benny, who shrugs. “I’m pretty beat,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sam sighs. He scrubs a weary hand down his face. “I could do with a lie down.”

* * *

Alone once again with Dean, Castiel turns to him. His skin still feels too feverish for a normal rut, and the pupils haven’t shrunk back to their normal size. Just the barest hint of green surrounds his black eyes.

Dean rasps, “Want you so bad.”

“I know,” Castiel shushes as he pulls away from Dean.

Dean reaches for him, but Castiel places a firm hand on his left shoulder to keep him down, the only spot free of bruising or scrapes. “Let me see you,” he says quietly, his voice appeasing. “You are injured.”

“Not too injured to satisfy you,” Dean counters. One corner of his mouth lifts into a rakish grin that quickly disappears as Castiel prods at the stitched wound above his heart. 

Dean grunts. “Fucking ow, man.”

“Complaining won’t make this go any faster,” Castiel says as he moves on, satisfied the surrounding skin isn’t swelling with infection or leaking any toxic fluids. He replaces the bandage quickly and efficiently as Dean makes increasingly lewd suggestions for what they could do alone in his tent.

Castiel bends forward to inspect Dean’s abdomen, carefully avoiding looking at or touching anywhere near Dean’s groin. Still, Dean bucks his hips in an ill-advised effort to drive Castiel wild with desire. To his dismay, Castiel remains visibly unaffected, and the abrupt movement reopens one of his wounds. As Castiel changes the bandage, Dean gets treated to a lecture on the importance of lying still.

Castiel’s stomach grumbles as he straightens up. He still hasn’t eaten all day.

“Hungry?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised. 

“A little,” Castiel admits. “I missed dinner.”

Dean hesitates. “I have some emergency reserves by my bed, if you want some.”

“You should save those for yourself.”

“Take ‘em. I’m not hungry.”

Castiel frowns. “But you haven’t eaten.”

Dean directs a pointed look at Castiel’s stomach. “You haven’t either.”

Castiel’s lip twitches. “I’ll have some if you do,” he bargains.

Dean’s eyes narrow with suspicion, and that’s fair – Castiel’s improvised plan of care is hardly intricate or especially impenetrable. “Fine,” Dean says dramatically before he tries to get up out of bed.

“I’ll get it,” Castiel says firmly. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“My legs work just fine,” Dean grouses.

Castiel licks his lips and implores, “Humor me. Please, Alpha.”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide.

Castiel reaches down to grab the food himself. He offers the first piece of jerky to Dean, who frowns, and indicates Castiel should take it instead.

“You’re impossible,” Castiel mutters as he pops one in his mouth and shakes the bag in Dean’s face.

“I’m awesome.”

Castiel huffs a laugh and sits back to watch Dean eat, unable to help the small smile that barely lifts the corners of his mouth. 

“Water?” Castiel tries next, lifting the almost full water jug. “The meat is very salty.”

“Yeah, give it here.” Dean takes a hearty gulp, drains it in seconds.

Castiel gets up, hand out to receive the empty jug. “More?” he asks.

Dean shakes his head as he reaches out to wrap his fingers around Castiel’s wrist, a loose hold this time, not enough to signal any of Castiel’s internal warning bells. “Stay?” he asks, vulnerable in a way Castiel has never heard from an alpha.

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel says as he sets the jug back down and settles back on the stool. “I’m here for as long as you need me.”

Dean’s mouth twists. “You’re too far away,” he says grumpily.

“Am I?” Castiel asks, eyebrows raised. “You can scent me just fine from here.”

“Don’t wanna just scent you.”

“And yet, that’s all you’re going to do,” Castiel says pleasantly.

Dean’s scent takes on a distinctly sour tinge. 

“For gods’ sake,” Castiel mumbles, rolling his eyes heavenward.

Dean won’t die from a prolonged rut, but it will drag on if he doesn’t get what his body needs. 

“I hope you’ll forgive me for invading your bed again,” Castiel says in an undertone as he crouches at the head of Dean’s bed

The shrinking space between them blooms with the scent of pleased alpha. 

Awkwardly perched at the head of the cot, Castiel motions for Dean to sit up so Castiel can slide in behind him. He stretches out one leg on either side of Dean, and gently he tugs the Alpha up higher so he is mostly resting on Castiel chest. Castiel wiggles into a more comfortable position, clasping both hands in front of them so his arms bracket Dean’s head – and keep him still.

On his next exhale, Dean relaxes even further into Castiel’s embrace.

“I wasn’t lying,” Dean murmurs, his voice so quiet Castiel hardly realizes he is speaking at all. “I don’t hate cuddling with you.”

“Tell me when you’re not in rut, and I might believe you.”

“Do you like it?”

Castiel glances down at him. From this angle above Dean, he can’t make out his expression; can’t tell how clouded his mind is with rut; can’t know if Dean is just saying what he wants to hear on the slim hope Castiel will sleep with him after all.

“I do,” Castiel says quietly. “I find it very enjoyable, actually.”

“The whores never want it,” Dean says, and he either doesn’t notice the sharp, acrid turn to Castiel’s scent or chooses to ignore it. “They always kick me out after business is over.”

Castiel isn’t about to do that, not unless Dean wants him out of his bed when his rut ends. “I’m not a whore,” he says for lack of anything else to contribute.

Dean snorts. “Believe me, I know.”

Castiel smoothes over the edges of Dean’s bandages idly to keep his hands busy. “Is this comfortable for you?”

“Hmm,” Dean hums agreement.

“Tell me if anything hurts.” Castiel reaches for the dropped bag of jerky in Dean’s lap and fishes out another piece to offer Dean. To Castiel’s surprise, Dean doesn’t reach for it with his hands. He leans forward instead, takes it between his teeth, and lets his lips kiss the tips of Castiel’s fingers before he settles back down. Smugness radiates off him in waves, intermingled with the usual lust.

At least he can’t see Castiel’s face, deep red like Benny’s favorite peppers.

“You alright there?” Dean drawls as he shifts on the bed, between Castiel’s legs, and the way he presses against Castiel’s groin can’t be an accident.

“I’m fine,” Castiel says in a strangled sort of voice. “Stop it, Dean, or I will leave.”

Dean slows his fidgeting. He tilts his head up, studying Castiel out of his limited field of vision. “You said you’d stay,” he accuses.

“It was implied my presence was conditional.”

“Conditional on what?”

“Your behavior.”

“You’re no fun, Clarence.”

Castiel sighs as he tries to relax. “It has been said before.”

* * *

“Aren’t you tired at all?” Castiel asks a few hours later.

“Too horny,” Dean mutters, wiggling his hips enticingly, but he doesn't sound like he expects anything to happen. “Can’t get my brain to shut off enough to go to bed.”

Castiel frowns. “I can step out for a moment, if you like. Let you take care of it.”

Dean flinches against him. “No, it’s fine. I’m, uh, better with you here.”

Castiel, stunned, doesn’t say anything as warmth floods his chest. He shouldn’t get ideas, though. Dean is in rut. Being near an omega, any omega, makes him feel better. Castiel isn’t special. 

“Uh, you got anything to talk about?” Dean asks in the silence, an odd embarrassed tinge to his voice. “I could use a distraction, to be honest.”

“What kind of distraction?”

“Anything. Just talk at me.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say,” Castiel says tentatively, brows furrowing as he searches for something to speak about. He can’t tell Dean any of the stories that come to mind. His whole life, his whole past, present, and future, had lain within the confines of his castle until he decided to leave. Dean can know none of it, or he’ll piece together Castiel’s cowardice, his selfishness, his disregard for the people who were his responsibility to protect. 

And on the off chance Dean would harbor any sort of romantic affection for him after his rut is over, if Dean knew _ that _ about Castiel… well, Castiel would be lucky if he were allowed to stay with the outlaws at all.

“Gods, calm down,” Dean’s voice breaks through the haze of Castiel’s panic. He turns around against Castiel’s chest, his eyes wide. “I’m not asking you to recite the Winchester Gospels. Relax.”

“What are the Winchester Gospels?”

“What are – _ how do you not know the Winchester Gospels?” _

“I’m not from here, and I grew up very sheltered,” Castiel reminds him, irritated at his offense.

“Right, right, I almost forgot for a second you lived under a rock.”

“I was raised in a castle,” Castiel corrects. “What are the Winchester Gospels, Dean?”

“The history of the current monarchy,” Dean says in a bored voice. “Every kid in school learns ‘em.”

“And they are very long?” Castiel guesses.

“And boring. And detailed. I mean, who needs to know King Henry’s favorite song?” Dean's nose wrinkles. “It was As Time Goes By, because nothing is too small for the Gospels.”

“That does seem irrelevant to the larger picture,” Castiel admits. “All Paradisians have is a collection of myths about how we descended from angels.”

“Angels, huh?”

Castiel shrugs. “It’s more of an epic poem. Not like your Gospels.”

Dean grimaces. _ “ _ It wouldn’t be so bad, but the historians insist on updating the thing every other fucking week. Like, when… uh, Prince Samuel got his first horse. They put out a new edition - _ just for that! _ And when King John got sick on a visit to King Metatron. That’s in there too for some fucking reason.”

“What is the most recent update?” Castiel asks. “If I’m going to be living in Terra for the foreseeable future, maybe I should read them myself.”

“Be my guest,” Dean scoffs. “It’s your time you’re wasting. Last I heard, the most recent edition had that visit to Paradiso in it. When King John got food poisoning and set up Prince Dean's betrothal the Omega Prince Castiel.”

Castiel’s heart stutters in his chest at the sound of his name, his real name, on Dean’s lips.

“You okay?” Dean asks, and he sounds a little worried. “You got all tense. Did you not know about the Castiel thing? You said you knew him.”

“I – yes, I did know about it,” Castiel says once he finds his voice again. He coughs, but it doesn’t clear his throat of whatever emotion is blocking his airway. “I just didn’t know it was common knowledge here in Terra.”

“‘Course it is,” Dean says. “He was gonna be our king consort.”

Castiel stiffens. _ “Was?” _ he repeats.

Dean goes still. “He _ is." _

“You said ‘was.’”

Dean moves to cross his arms across his chest, but with a wince, drops them back to his sides. “While I was grabbing supplies a while back, I heard he’s missing.”

“Missing?” Castiel echoes. He struggles to keep his expression neutral, even though Dean has just shared his first piece of news from home since he left.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “He ran away, or something. The source didn’t have a lot of details.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Dean says incredulous. “That’s all you have to say, ‘oh’?”

“What would you like me to say?” 

Dean makes a frustrated noise. “I thought he was a friend of yours, or something.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Just the way you talked about him,” Dean says, after a beat, adding, “when were in Dorothy’s attic,” like Castiel could forget. “Seemed like you really knew him. And he’s an omega too.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that fact,” Castiel says, his tone dripping with disdain. “And you think that we were close because we’re both omegas?”

“No!” Dean protests. He winces. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

“Just because two nobles are omegas doesn’t mean we were friends,” Castiel says severely.

“But were you?”

Castiel huffs, unable to answer the question. 

Dean resettles against Castiel’s chest, tilting his head back so he can scent Castiel better. “Will you go back?”

“Go back?”

“To Paradiso,” Dean clarifies. Castiel shakes his head. “Even though your buddy is missing?”

Castiel swallows, pushing aside horrifying scenarios of being recaptured by Metatron, locked up in his room or, gods forbid, the dungeon until he’s forced to marry. “No. I can’t go back. Not now.”

“Where do you think he went?” 

Castiel just shrugs. “Where is Metatron looking for him?”

Dean snorts. “Everywhere? He’s been all over Paradiso, apparently, and word is he’s approached King Crowley for entry rights. He’ll ask King John next, if he’s not in Inferno. Queen Eve already said she’d kill anyone entering her lands.”

“Do you think King John will let him in?” Castiel asks anxiously.

Dean’s jaw clenches. “Don’t see why he would have a problem with it,” he says in a hard voice. “Terra’s not on bad terms with Paradiso, and it would mean Metatron owes him one. You never want to turn down a favor owed by a king.”

Castiel swallows, nodding along as a heavy weight settles in his gut. He’ll have to be even more on his guard. He’d grown complacent here with the outlaws, living on the outskirts of towns and away from prying eyes. But nowhere is really safe, if Metatron’s spies are allowed past the borders.

“I hope Prince Castiel stays far away,” Dean says with surprising relish.

“You do?"

Dean snorts. “Who knows what kind of bullshit he’s had to deal with his whole life. I’m sure he’s better off, wherever he is, if he’s not dealing with Metadick the all the time.”

Touched, Castiel allows a small smile to grace his lips. Warmth suffuses him, like a small sun was lit up beneath his ribcage. Who could have predicted a simple comment from a roughneck outlaw could mean so much. 

“You know, King Metatron forbid a meeting between the, uh, betrothed?” Dean continues offhandedly.

Castiel’s good mood vanishes. “He did?” he asks, and he can’t tell why he’s surprised his uncle seized another chance to make Castiel’s life miserable.

“Prince Dean, uh, wanted to meet before marrying,” Dean continues, an awkwardness to his tone Castiel hasn’t heard before. “I mean, he was supposed to be saddled with this guy for the rest of his days. It’d be a crap night all around if the first time they were in a room alone together was on their wedding night.”

Castiel hadn’t questioned why he had never met Prince Dean, assuming it was all part of Metatron’s plan to keep Castiel as docile as possible. Truthfully, he was not exactly looking forward to meeting Prince Dean at all. Once he met him, it would all become real. 

Dean’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “Do you know if Prince Castiel wanted to meet?”

Finally, a question Castiel can answer upfront: “No.”

“Oh.” Dean sags against him. He drags his fingers through the short hairs of his coarse beard. “Do you… know why?”

Castiel exhales a slow breath. “He was afraid, I think,” he mutters. “What if Prince Dean was… not a good man? If he was or wasn't, Castiel wouldn’t have a choice.”

Dean fidgets with the edge of a bandage curling up from his skin, the scent of disappointment curling around the pair of them. 

"It would be the same with any alpha," Castiel tries to reassure. “It’s not a slight against Terrans.”

"Sure, yeah, I get it."

Castiel hesitates before squeezing his arms a little tighter around Dean's shoulders. "If he knew how gracious, welcoming… how awesome the people of Terra were, then maybe he wouldn't have felt that way."

Dean inhales a slow breath and lets it out in an explosive exhale. "The people are awesome. The nobles are still a bunch of assclowns not worth anybody's time. And that's the sort of people he'd be marrying into."

Castiel leans back, thinking. "But a royal's primary duty is to see to the welfare of their people. Whether or not the not nobility are pleasant shouldn't matter."

"Ha," Dean snorts. "Sammy feels the same way. Then again, he's the smart one with enough gods’ damned patience to deal with them at all. Me, if I could burn it all to the ground, I would."

Castiel sighs. "If the nobles are as bad as you say, then the people deserve better."

_ "They do," _Dean says heatedly. He shakes his head. “I was just thinking, if Prince Castiel did marry, would that change anything in Terra?”

Castiel blinks. “Change anything? In what way?”

“I don’t know,” Dean hedges. “King John says the consort wouldn’t have any sway in the politics. He’d just be there for show. And making babies.”

Castiel’s scent sours with his displeasure. “Then the addition of the Omega Prince wouldn’t make much of a difference,” he mutters.

_ “But,” _ Dean adds like Castiel never spoke, “You said Prince Castiel is like you, right? And if _ you _were bonded to the crown prince, I don’t think you’d be taking a back seat, prepping the nursery and leaving the big strong alphas to run everything.”

Castiel snorts. “Prince Dean would have to lock me in there first.”

Dean shakes his head ruefully. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He sighs, adding, “He wouldn’t know what to do with you at all.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg rolls over on her side to look at Castiel properly. “You can’t tell me you’re giving up on him this easily.”
> 
> “What am I supposed to think?” His eyes flash as he rounds on her. “Dean was in rut when he made his advances. I knew he wasn’t in his right mind – you warned me he wouldn’t be in his right mind. Still, I told him about my… feelings. And now that he’s back to normal, he flees every time he sees me. Tell me, what other conclusion can I draw?”

At some point before sunrise, they fall asleep together. Castiel wakes first and Dean soon after. They’ve shifted in the night, with Castiel lying almost flat on his back and Dean on his better side, one arm resting over Castiel’s torso.

Dean mutters, “Fuck, it’s so much worse in the mornings.” 

He latches onto Castiel as he tries to extricate himself from where they’re tangled together, trying to shove his nose in the crook of Castiel’s neck. Sometime while they were sleeping, Dean’s scent, which had tapered off while they were speaking the night, had returned in full force. The entire tent reeks of aroused alpha.

“Dean,” Castiel hisses in warning.

“You smell so good,” Dean murmurs in his ear as his hips buck against Castiel's ass.

“You don’t,” Castiel lies. “I’ll ask Sam to wash you.”

“You sure you don’t wanna do it yourself?” Dean asks, eyebrows waggling. 

“I’m sure.” Castiel pulls away. “Do you think you can manage on your own for five minutes? I’ll go get Sam and get you something to eat.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbles as he reaches down to adjust himself in his pants.

Castiel leaves.

Together with Sam, he washes Dean down and redresses his wounds. They look just about the same as yesterday. Ever vigilant for infection, Castiel applies even more salve. Sam resumes Dean-watching duties in the afternoon as Castiel ducks away to prepare more of his own heat delaying solution as a precaution since Dean’s rut won’t dissipate for another two days.

By the afternoon, exhaustion weighs on him like a heavy blanket.

“Go take a break,” Sam says as Dean flips him off. “I can handle things here.”

“I would rather have Clarence,” Dean pitches in.

Sam throws Dean a _ don’t be stupid _ look. “He needs to rest.”

“Awesome! I have a perfectly good bed here,” Dean says triumphantly. He pats the cot in what he probably thinks is a tempting way.

Sam rolls his eyes. “I can see five blood stains from here, and it stinks, dude. We’re gonna have to get you a new one when your rut’s over.”

“Hey!” Dean protests as Castiel get to his feet. “Come back!”

Castiel ignores him and trudges out of the tent with a weary wave to Sam. As Castiel leaves, he hears Sam warn, “Don’t make me dump cold water on you again, man.”

Tired as he is, Castiel doesn’t go straight back to his own tent.

After a roundabout search, he finds Meg with the horses, feeding them carrot stubs leftover from Benny’s stew the night before. Jo, their normal caretaker, is nowhere in sight.

“Castiel,” Meg says in surprise at the sound of his footsteps.

“Hello, Meg.”

“Didn’t think I’d see you so soon,” she says coolly, adding after a quick once-over, “and so… untouched too.”

Castiel sighs as he takes a seat on an overturned tree. “Not completely untouched,” he says ruefully. 

“Seems like. I can barely smell you at all under all that alpha stink. He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

“He’s been giving it his best effort,” Castiel says shortly.

Meg snorts and picks up a carrot, frowning at it. She gingerly approaches Bones, a faint smile upturning the corners of her mouth as he nuzzles her hand. “You left him?”

“With Sam,” Castiel confirms.

Meg makes a neutral sound of understanding and moves on to Gunnison, Jesse’s brown gelding.

The nearby river provides enough ambient noise for Castiel to almost drift off. He lets his mind wander. Out here, away from the tense, stifling tent filled with the scent of rutting alpha, he can almost relax. The longer he sits, right in the middle of the breeze coming off the water, the fainter Dean’s hold on him becomes. 

Out of nowhere, Meg says, “I can bunk with Garth if you wanna ask Kevin to take my bed.”

Castiel starts. “Excuse me?” 

“You don’t have to share a tent with me anymore.”

“I don’t?” Castiel repeats, completely nonplussed.

Meg pulls a face. “I’m an alpha.”

“Right, yes, you mentioned that,” Castiel says weakly. Impossibly, while worrying about Dean, fending off Dean’s advances, and diverting Dean’s attention from his rut, he’d completely forgotten about Meg. Guilty, he shuffles a little in place.

“So…” Meg drifts off, edging further away from Castiel. A strange fear lurks in the corners of her eyes as they dart around the clearing, anywhere but at Castiel, like she’s afraid of _ him _. “I’ll go ask Garth then. It’ll work – he's totally scared of me.”

Castiel gives his head a little shake, still trying to clear it and focus on Meg. “No, wait,” he says as he starts to get up. 

“Look, it’s fine,” Meg says brusquely. “I don’t think this place is for me anyway.”

Castiel falters. “I – are you sure?”

She straightens, her face going blank. She still won’t meet his gaze. “I don’t like to stay in one place too long. Gives me the heebie jeebies.”

Castiel isn’t an expert at analyzing human behavior, but he’s known Meg for years now, has seen her amused, angry, bored, upset, even happy on occasion. If there is anyone has a chance of reading, it’s Meg.

Which just piles on the guilt that he forgot about her so easily.

“You don’t have to leave,” he says slowly. His gaze rakes over Meg’s face, trying to take in every minute change as he speaks. “If_ you _ are truly uncomfortable here, though, I wouldn't stop you.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “Sire, it’s not me I’m worried about.”

“Well then, you don’t have to worry at all,” he says with only partially faked ease. But he doubts himself, adding, “Unless _ I _ am not the reason for your second thoughts.”

Meg purses her lips as her eyes flicker to him and back down to the ground again. “I sometimes forget how dense you are.”

Castiel sighs. “I can’t. Not with you and Dean to remind me.”

After an awkward beat, Meg mutters a “sorry” that’s probably a complete lie.

Castiel clears his throat. “I want you here,” he declares baldly. “If that was an issue, it… well, it shouldn’t be.”

“You want me?” Meg repeats, her voice small. Some of the tightness bleeds from her eyes.

“I mean,” Castiel corrects, “You’ve been a valuable friend to me. I see no reason not to trust you going forward, since you’ve never done anything untoward before. I’ve never known you before this happened to you. Nothing has changed, if you look at it that way.”

Meg just shakes her head, disbelieving. “If you say so, Castiel.”

Tentatively, Castiel takes a step forward and wraps his arms around her. She’s stiff in his hold, and it takes her a moment to get on board with the hug, but she eventually returns it. He keeps his nose far away from her scent glands, but he can just barely detect the remnants of alpha on her skin this close together.

Meg sniffs. It's not sound of a normal scenting.

_ “Are you crying?” _ Castiel asks incredulously.

Meg pulls back, swallowing as she ducks her head so her hair covers part of her face. “No. ‘Course not. You just smell so fucking bad. Makes my eyes water.”

“Come on,” Castiel says gently as he squeezes her hand once before releasing. “Let’s go back.”

* * *

Castiel climbs into Dean’s bed that night too. The moment he slides in behind Dean, the Alpha’s scent mellows, replacing the undercurrent of frustration that hung in the tent the whole day. 

“That’s right,” Dean croons. “Get in here.”

“Don’t try anything.” Castiel wiggles to get comfortable.

Dean groans. “You’re killing me here.”

“I believe I’m doing the exact opposite,” Castiel informs him primly as he directs Dean’s face to his scent glands.

“Sure you are,” Dean mumbles into his skin, breathing in deep. “Gods, you smell like a fucking dream.”

Castiel swallows.

“Please, Clarence,” Dean whispers as he noses up Castiel’s neck, his lips just barely brushing his skin. “I can make you feel so good.”

Castiel coughs. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he truly means it. “I can’t let you do that. Not now.”

“But later?” Dean asks hopefully.

Are those teeth at his earlobe? 

Praying for strength, Castiel stares up at the canvas ceiling. He can’t even look at Dean, so ready and so forbidden to Castiel.

“Throw me a bone, here.” Dean snorts. “Heh, _ bone.” _

“You’re still healing, Dean,” Castiel tries helplessly. “Your body isn’t ready for any excessive physical exertion.”

Dean chuckles, hot puffs of air against Castiel’s neck. “You can do all the exertion. I don’t mind lying here if it’s you on top of me.”

_ “Dean.” _

“I know you want this,” Dean says, pulling away to stare into Castiel’s eyes. “I can smell it. Why do you keep saying no?”

“I–” Castiel breaks off, shoving down the _ yes, please, now, _ on the tip of his tongue. “But _ you _ don’t want this.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Dean says, a hint of amusement in his voice, “But this is what want feels like.” He grinds his erection deliberately against Castiel’s hip.

Castiel inhales sharply, his own arousal spiking in tandem with his fear. He usually prides himself on his patience, but this beguiling, confusing, _ stubborn _alpha has somehow worn it all away.

Dean pauses. “Clarence. I want this. I want you.”

“You keep saying that,” Castiel hisses, agonized, “but you’re in rut. You’ll say anything.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true, gods’ damn it!”

Castiel jumps. “Dean–” he breaks off, nostrils flaring with the heady rush of Dean’s aggravation and aggression. He licks his lips, eyes darting up to stare at Dean’s eyes. Large, black pupils nearly overtake the slim ring of green. Dazed, he almost doesn’t register the words Dean is saying.

“Get Sam.”

“What?”

Dean scoots as far away from Castiel as the cot allows, his face pained. “Get Sam. He’ll make sure I don’t do anything stupid.”

Castiel nearly falls to the floor in his haste to put more distance between them. “I – why?” he asks before he turns to go.

Dean shakes his head. “You’re scared – of me,” he says quietly. “I can tell… beneath all the other crap. I might not always care it’s there, but I can tell.” He swallows, his wide panicked eyes darting everywhere but at Castiel. “I almost – fuck. Just get Sam.”

Frowning, Castiel pauses. He tilts his head, studying Dean’s hunched shoulders and bowed spine. He’s probably pulling painfully at his wounds that way, but he doesn't seem to care. “I’m not scared of you,” he says into the silence.

Dean just shakes his head. “I can smell it, dude. You don’t need to lie to me.” He sits up in bed, grimacing as he reaches to support the large gash on his abdomen.

“I’m not lying,” Castiel says, a little baffled.

“Bullshit,” Dean snarls. “You came here to get away from predatory alphas – bastards just after you for a hole for their knot, not because–” He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale of breath. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. The first two days are always the worst. Sam and Benny’ll be able to take it from here.”

“I’m scared of what I’ll do to you,” Castiel blurts, abandoning all caution to the wind.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Castiel releases an explosive sigh, uncomfortable at being trapped underneath the weight of Dean’s stare. But he can't escape yet, not until he’s told Dean how wrong he is. And then if Dean wants nothing to do with him, that’s on Castiel.

Dean blinks up at him. “You aren't doing jack shit to me.”

“Not currently. But I want to,” Castiel says to the floor. “But you’re in rut. I have no way of knowing if you’d feel the same if your mating drive wasn’t fueling all your choices. If we do have sex, and you end up regretting the decision… I don’t know if I could take it.” 

Dean gapes at him, looking for once at a loss for words.

“But I think it is time to get Sam,” Castiel says firmly as he inches towards the entrance of the tent. “I’m clearly compromised. I need a little space, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t look any more appeased by Castiel’s explanation. If anything, he seems worse. “I think we both do.”

* * *

Dean’s rut lasts for two more days. True to his word, the beginning was the most difficult, and by the latter two days, he is almost back to normal, just a little more irritable and on edge. Quite like he is before he has breakfast in the mornings, but instead his foul mood lasts all day.

Everyone gives him a wide berth, save Sam and Benny.

“So I heard our fearless leader is up and back and at ‘em,” Meg says after tracking Castiel down to where he is collecting herbs a little ways off from the campsite. 

“I suppose he must be,” Castiel mutters as he viciously pulls up a few dandelions. He grimaces as a couple of the heads snap off in his haste.

“Since his rut is over, I would’ve thought you’d be back there,” Meg says, tipping her head back in the direction of camp as she kneels down to help. “Fucking like rabbits,” she adds, as if Castiel couldn't catch her meaning the first time around.

“I haven’t seen Dean since I helped him through his rut,” Castiel reports in a dispassionate voice.

“Yeah?” Meg asks, clearly not believing a word. “You sure you’re not avoiding him because you caught feelings?”

“I am not avoiding him.” Castiel ruthlessly yanks up several hyssop plants, accidentally grabbing more of the root system than he technically needs, which is none at all.

“Sure looks like it from where I’m crouched here in the dirt with you,” Meg says pleasantly.

“I’m not,” Castiel insists. “He’s the one avoiding me.”

“Is he now?”

“I’ve tried talking to him,” Castiel says without looking at her. “He escapes me every time.”

“He’s an invalid. I didn’t think he was capable of escape.”

“He’s unexpectedly spry in spite of his injuries.”

Meg laughs. “And you just gave up? Is that why you’re out here in the middle of the woods?”

“I thought I’d spare him the hassle of avoiding me and make myself scarce instead,” Castiel says in a low voice. He sits back and sets down his basket of collected herbs.

“Of course you did,” Meg sighs as he begins sorting his bounty. “Because there’s no way you’re avoiding him too.”

Castiel pulls out a weed that snuck in, tossing it away with a frown.

Meg lays down on her back next to where Castiel’s hunched over his basket. “If we double-team him, I bet we can pin him down.” 

“I don’t want to corner him.”

Meg turns to him, surprised. “But you like him. You’re like _ super _ into him. Enough to give me second-hand embarrassment sometimes.”

“He clearly doesn’t feel the same,” Castiel grunts, eyes trained on his hands and the plants between his fingers. 

“He pants after you like a bitch in heat,” Meg says flatly.

“That’s offensive.”

“It’s true,” Meg counters. “Anyone can see it.”

“I don’t.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re hopeless and you need me to point these things out for you.”

Castiel doesn't respond, just spares a half second to shoot a glare her way.

Meg rolls over on her side to look at Castiel properly. “You can’t tell me you’re giving up this easily.”

“There’s nothing to give up on.”

“If you believe that Castiel, you really are hopeless.”

“What am I supposed to think?” His eyes flash as he rounds on her. “He was in rut when he made his advances. I knew he wasn’t in his right mind – _ you warned me _ he wouldn’t be in his right mind. Still, I told him about my… feelings. And now that he’s back to normal, he flees every time he sees me. Tell me, what other conclusion can I draw?”

“Not that one.” Meg pulls up bits of grass, her face pensive. “Maybe he just has his head too far up his ass to make logical decisions. Alphas get like that over omegas.”

“No. Dean is a very smart man.”

“Not when it comes to you,” Meg says with a barely-there smile. “He treats you different. Trust me.”

Castiel just shakes his head. It’s a nice thought, but impossible. He’s just Clarence, the oft-clueless, penniless omega ex-noble who may know his way around an herb garden or the right end of a sword, but not much else. There are so many other things Dean, their charismatic alpha leader, would want in a mate.

He finishes up before long, irritated he could only find about a quarter of the herbs he needs. Dean’s rut, Lee’s heat, and his own preventative measures depleted his stores considerably. “I don’t think I can forage for the rest of these,” he mutters as he gets to his feet.

“Are we leaving already?” Meg yawns. 

“We don’t have to,” Castiel says as he tentatively leans back and stretches out his legs. “It is very nice out here.”

“No people,” Meg mutters. “Doesn’t stink of horses. It’s fucking heaven in my book.” She closes her eyes.

Castiel hums in agreement, tilting his face up to catch some of the midmorning sunlight filtering through the leaves above them. The season is slowly turning – Castiel had paused at the first red leaf he spotted on the ground. In Paradiso, forests comprised mostly of evergreens and non-deciduous plants. He’d saved it in his pocket even though Meg laughed at him.

“If you get bored,” Meg says as she settles back down. “I think there’s a beehive a little ways that way.” She throws her hand in a vaguely eastward direction. “Check it out if you want.”

Castiel touches her briefly on the shoulder. She grimaces, slitting her eyes open. “Thank you, Meg.”

“Just don’t wake me when you get stung.”

* * *

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean chokes on his dinner. Sam shoots Jo a significant look, and she seems to melt into the shadows. Sam mutters, “I’ll get you some water,” before nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to leave.

“Hey, Clarence,” Dean says, glaring at the spaces where Sam and Jo used to be.

“I need to speak to you.”

“Can it wait?” Dean asks impatiently. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here.” He gestures to his nearly empty bowl of stew.

“Yes,” Castiel says sardonically, “I can see that.” Dean’s eyebrows raise at his tone. “I’ll be brief. I need to go to an apothecary to purchase supplies.”

“You do?” Dean asks, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t before.”

“The weather is getting colder,” Castiel says flatly. “Medicinal herbs don’t grow as abundantly now as they did in the summer.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean says. “What do you need? Maybe Sam can get it for you.”

Castiel holds firm. “I think it’s best if I go. I’m not sure Sam has the expertise to recognize exactly what I need.”

“You can’t write it down?”

Castiel bristles. Is a one day trip too much to ask for? This might be his last chance in _ years _to leave the safety of the camp if King John allows Metatron’s minions into the country. Dean wouldn’t even be the one accompanying him, since he’s been forbidden from horseback while still healing.

“Will you let me go or not?” Castiel asks, exasperated. 

Dean’s mouth thins. “I’m thinking about it.”

“What is there to think about?” Castiel demands. “All I’m asking is for one trip out of the camp. _ One.” _ His last, probably, for a good long while.

Dean hesitates before asking in a rush, “You’ll come back, though, right?” 

Castiel glowers at him. “It would hardly be fair payback to abandon you without a healer after all you’ve done for me.”

“Done for you, right,” Dean mutters in an undertone as he runs a hand through his hair distractedly. “Sure. Knock yourself out. Sam’s taking off the day after tomorrow for a supply run, so you can tag along with him.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head, bending down to scrape the last bits of food out of his bowl. “Don’t mention it,” he mumbles in between bites.

Castiel waits half a second more, rocking back on his heels and awkwardly clasping his hands in front of him, but Dean doesn’t say anything else. Defeated, he goes off to find Sam who happily agrees to take Castiel along as a travelling partner.

The next day, Castiel does a thorough inventory and attends to the chores he’d neglected while tending to Dean’s rut. For once, Meg does her half of the work instead of foisting the majority onto Castiel in the name of “practice.”

Sam finds him as he finishes packing up in the early morning. They’ll be taking the shortest route out of Walker lands since he’s probably still on the lookout for them.

“Dean said you can take Impala,” Sam says as they make their way to the horses. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, surprised me too.” Sam approaches Bones with a wide grin and pats him on the nose before saddling up.

“Where are we going?” Castiel asks as he directs Impala to follow Bones down a narrow trail not quite big enough for two horses to walk abreast.

“To the Zeddmore lands.” Sam slows as they take a sharp turn around a large craggy boulder.

“And they won’t be on the lookout for us either?”

Sam chuckles. “Probably not. They’re less sadistic… more incompetent. If we don’t cause trouble, I don’t think anyone will pay attention to us.”

They continue on for several more minutes in silence to only sounds of their horses’ hooves on the forest floor and the occasional bird cry through the trees. It’s all very relaxing.

“How are you doing?” Sam’s voice breaks through his almost meditative state of non-thinking.

“I am well,” Castiel says warily

Sam twists around in the saddle to stare. “You sure?” he asks, one corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. He gestures with one hand at Castiel. “You don’t look too hot.”

Castiel lays a hand on Impala’s mane, stroking the coarse hair lightly. “I haven’t been sleeping, I guess.”

“That makes two of us,” Sam says as he turns back around to face forward. 

“I can make you a sleeping draught,” Castiel offers. “I can get the ingredients on our trip.”

Sam chuckles. “I’d sleep just fine if Dean wasn’t being an asshole.”

“Does he need help sleeping too?”

Sam shoots Castiel a curious look over his shoulder. “Dean’s the one who’s been keeping me up.”

“Oh.” Castiel swallows back the questions crowding the tip of his tongue. If Dean wanted him to know, if he wanted Castiel’s help, he would have come to Castiel himself. Dean is his own man. 

“You don’t wanna know why?” Sam asks as they turn off the trail and onto a narrow road wide enough for Impala and Bones.

Castiel’s fingers tighten on the reins. “Unless I can help, I fail to see how it’s my place to interfere.”

Sam releases an explosive sigh. “And I thought it was just him with his head up his ass,” he mutters in an undertone Castiel’s not sure he’s supposed to have heard.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, Dean’s my brother,” Sam begins apologetically. “He’s all I have–”

Castiel frowns. There’s a whole camp full of outlaws they just left behind that would attest to the untruth of that statement. Still, he has the grace to understand he shouldn't interrupt. He tilts his head, studying Sam as he goes on.

“–and I want the best for him, I really do. Jo says I should stay out of it, that we’re already in each other’s business way too much, but I think he’s hurting more than he’s letting on.”

“If you’re worried I will make advances,” Castiel says loudly, clearly, “There is no need. I have no intention of following up on what Dean started during his rut.”

“You don’t?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Dean wasn’t in his right mind,” and if he could never have to say that phrase again, he’d die a happy man. Even inside his own head, the mantra rings stale and trite. “I know our time together doesn’t mean anything now he’s back to himself.”

Sam throws him a flat look. “How’d you figure that out?”

Castiel ducks his head, focusing on the rhythmic flutter of Impala’s mane instead of Sam’s judgmental expression. “He won’t talk to me,” he says as his face burns. “He won’t even look at me. Obviously, I overstepped. Perhaps he doesn’t resent he survived the poison, but he certainly didn’t appreciate the methods I used.” Castiel coughs, but the lump in his throat remains. 

“He won’t talk to you because Dean hates to talk about his feelings,” Sam says bluntly. 

“His actions have made his feelings more than clear.”

Sam grumbles something vaguely unflattering under his breath. Castiel only makes out the word “jerk” in the jumble.

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “Just because he doesn’t want to sleep with me does not make him a jerk,” he says, offended on Dean’s behalf.

Sam nearly steers Bones off the road. “Woah,” he says, one hand up. “I wasn’t saying that.”

“Weren’t you?”

Sam grimaces as he reaches up a hand to run through his long hair. His eyes dart around the road, like he’s waiting for people to jump out of the underbrush and attack. “Gods,” he says, exasperated, “Dean’s being a _ jerk _ because he won’t man up and tell you he’s fucking head over heels for you.”

Impala snorts as Castiel accidentally yanks on the reins. Luckily, she has better sense than Castiel and stays on the road, easily keeping pace with Bones. _ “What?” _Castiel splutters.

“I’ve never seen him this far gone before. And I was there when a Ellen hosted a pie eating competition. He’s been driving me nuts for _ days _,” Sam gripes, “moaning about how you were pressured into looking after him and didn’t really mean anything you said because you were worried about setting him off.” 

Castiel gapes, at a total loss for words.

Sam turns to face Castiel head-on. “You _ did _ mean what you said, right?” he asks, his tone light even though his expression turns serious.

Castiel's eyes drop to his saddle. “I said a lot of things.”

“That you’d want him after his rut was over,” Sam supplies.

“He told you that?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Whatever he doesn’t tell me, I can figure out on my own. I’ve known the guy my whole life. There’s not much I don’t get about Dean. Including his tendency for self-sabotage.”

Castiel was more than correct in his assessment that Dean is an _ infuriating _ individual. “Why wouldn’t he just _ tell _ me this?”

“Did you miss the part where I said sabotaging himself is Dean’s favorite pastime?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised. “He’s got some ridiculous idea he doesn’t deserve good things.”

Castiel doesn’t know where to start. Dean certainly deserved good things – no question about that. He’s… righteous. A compassionate leader. A generous man through and through. But Sam is implying _Castiel _ is a good thing, and while he may have some admirable qualities, there are certainly not enough of them to deserve that kind of attention from Dean.

“I’m not a good thing,” Castiel rasps.

“Well, yeah, you’re not a thing,” Sam says quickly, entirely misreading Castiel’s meaning. “But you get what I’m saying.”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head forcefully. “You’re mistaken. I’m not good for Dean.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam challenges. “You care about him. You put yourself in danger to save him. Not to mention all the other problems you solved since you got here.” He nods once, satisfied with his argument.

Castiel doesn’t have a rebuttal for that, not one he can argue with Sam. If Castiel pursued anything with Dean, he would have to give up on any hope of returning to Paradiso, of reclaiming his birthright. He would consign himself to a life in the woods, constantly on the run, struggling for survival – but he would do it all by Dean’s side. 

* * *

“Do you mind if we make a stop first?” Sam asks as they finally emerge onto a main thoroughfare with steady trickles of horses and people moving in either direction.

“Where?”

“To the local magistrate. Corbett’s a nice kid, but he has no clue what he’s doing.”

“And you’ll… help?”

“That’s the plan,” Sam says with gusto. “Zeddmore didn’t have a great harvest this year, and a little advice and gold might go a long way to keep everyone from going too hungry. Ed – Lord Zeddmore, that is – can get caught up in his experiments and stuff. Forget to budget for the lean months.”

Castiel just shakes his head. “I can’t believe this country is so poorly run.”

Sam’s face darkens, but he doesn’t refute Castiel’s statement.

“You and Dean are doing your best,” Castiel continues, “but there are systemic problems that can’t be addressed by two men alone.”

“I don’t know what it’s like in Paradiso,” Sam says, his voice deadly calm as Castiel’s pulse quickens with foreboding, “but in Terra we strongly believe in free will. We let people make their own choices. Sometimes they fuck up. Sometimes they don’t.”

Castiel can’t help but ask, “Why take the chance?”

Sam throws him an inscrutable look. “Because every person deserves the right to decide their own destiny.”

And Castiel can’t really deny that.

They journey on, stopping only at early midday to give Impala and Bones a chance to rest and themselves a bite to eat. 

To Castiel’s surprise, Sam spends their break explaining exactly how Ed mismanaged his funds. He goes into the specifics of what areas of the economy and social strata will be hit the worst. He proposes several solutions, and Castiel has to verify with Sam that he is indeed asking for his opinion.

“Hell yeah,” Sam says as he reaches over to clap Castiel on the back. “You’re a smart dude, or so Dean tells me. There’s no harm in asking. Good ideas can come from anywhere.”

“I suppose they can,” Castiel breathes, as a new admiration for Sam grows.

Sam shrugs. “So, what do you think?”

They reach Zeddmore by the mid-afternoon. When they arrive at the magistrate’s building, a neighbor informs them Corbett is out for lunch.

“Shit,” Sam says good-naturedly before he turns to Castiel. “Do you mind splitting up? You can head to the apothecary, and I can wait here for Corbett.”

“I don’t mind at all.” Castiel smiles, already reslishing the freedom to move on his own. He hops down off Impala and helps Sam tie her and Bones to a nearby post.

After inquiring for directions with Corbett’s neighbor, Castiel sets off. If he skips a couple steps, caught up in his newfound freedom, Sam never has to know.

He dallies down the main street, stopping to peer into shop windows that strike his fancy and pausing over street vendors’ wares. Sam gave him what he says is enough coin for the herbs, but since Castiel has never bought any before, he can’t be too sure and resigns himself to just browsing.

He reaches the apothecary too soon and finds the vast majority of what he needs, enough for all the usual salves and mixtures he relies on on a daily basis at the camp. The woman behind the counter, Tara, is brusque but informative, and Castiel doesn’t get the feeling she is taking advantage of him. He exits the stop pleased, arms laden with his purchases wrapped in tight little bundles.

He should head back to Sam, but he can’t bring himself to hurry. Instead, he ambles along, bumping into quite a few people as he tries to take it all in at once.

A commotion down the street catches his eye, and he wanders down to look.

A redheaded woman stands next to an overturned carriage, hands on her hips and hair askew. A footman stands off to the side, arguing with a man in an apron.

Castiel stops dead in his tracks as the redhead turns so her profile catches the late afternoon sun. “Anna?”

Her mouth falls open as she catches sight of him. “Prince Castiel?” she gasps.

His heart rate spikes to doubletime as he hurries to her side, casting furtive glances around in case anyone heard his real name. Everyone bustles on as normal.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I’m on my way to the capital,” she says, her hazel eyes wide as she drinks him in. “ I can’t believe you’re here!”

“I can’t either,” Castiel says faintly. 

They stand there for a moment, just staring at each other. “It’s been chaos since you left," Anna starts.

“It has?” Castiel asks, not exactly surprised.

Anna bobs a quick nod, even more wisps of red hair escaping her updo. “King Metatron has taken lawlessness to a whole new level, Prince Castiel.”

He hurries to shush her. “I don’t use that name anymore.”

Anna glances around them, her face troubled. “So you’ve been hiding out here?”

“Not… here, exactly,” Castiel says. “We’re only stopping through. I’ve been living in Terra, though. The people have been good to me.”

“What about your home?” Anna asks in a small voice.

Castiel’s shoulders slump. “It’s not my home anymore,” he says quietly. “Hasn’t been in a long time.”

“We need you, Cas–” Castiel shakes his head sharply, and Anna cuts herself off. “Fine,” she says, nose wrinkling in distaste, “whatever your name is now. We need you. You can help us. Come back.”

Castiel tries to picture it, returning to camp for Meg only to say goodbye to everyone else. To Dean. It feels like someone took a hammer to his sternum. Shocked, he turns to Anna’s expectant face. “I can’t,” he says simply.

“You can’t?” she repeats, her tone disbelieving. 

_ “Clarence!” _

“Clarence?” Anna asks, eyebrows raised as Castiel turns to the direction of Sam’s voice.

“I just said I can’t go by Castiel, can I?” he hisses under his breath as Sam approaches at his usual loping stride. “Hello, Sam.”

“Hey,” Sam says, eyeing Anna warily. “Who’s your friend?”

“Anna,” Castiel supplies, gesturing in her direction and tipping his head respectfully. “She’s heir to the Milton lands and visiting from Paradiso.”

Anna bites her lip as Sam gives her a slight bow. “I’m not the heir anymore,” she said in an undertone. “My father passed a couple of months ago. I have the title now.”

Castiel’s face falls. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” he says as he lays a hand on her arm. By his side, Sam shifts his weight from foot to foot awkwardly. 

“As I was saying,” Anna turns back to Castiel, “We need you back home.”

Castiel can almost feel Sam freeze in place. Carefully, without looking in his direction, he says, “I’m sorry, but I can’t go with you.”

Anna opens her mouth, her gaze darting all the way up to Sam’s face and then over to Castiel. She swallows nervously. “I can protect you,” she says in an undertone. “The estate is mine now – it’s not like it was before you left. More of us are angry; more of us want change. We can make a difference. I know it.”

Pained, Castiel shakes his head. “I can’t,” he chokes out. “I’m needed elsewhere.”

Her face falls. “Please.”

Castiel steps away, guilt gnawing at his insides. “It was nice to see you, Anna.”

“And you,” she says, her eyes downcast. Castiel can tell it’s only her respect for his defunct title keeping her from pressing her point further.

Sam coughs lightly. “It was, uh, nice to meet you.”

Anna merely nods once before she moves away, calling out to her footman.

Castiel barely says a word as Sam finishes up his errands, since he was also instructed to pick up perishable foodstuffs not available in the middle of the woods and specific items, like a replacement dagger for Jo and a new bedroll for Dean.

With Bones and Impala laden with their new purchases, they make their way back to the group of outlaws. Sam briefly asks him if he would rather stop for the night, but just the thought of sitting still for hours with only his thoughts makes him shiver with anxiety, so he tells Sam he’s alright to keep going.

Thankfully, there’s a full moon overhead, and Sam has no problems navigating in the semi-darkness. They meet almost nobody on the road. Critters, invisible in the dark, skitter on crunching leaves, and nocturnal birds screech from overhead.

“Do you know any ghost stories?” Sam asks as they reach a fork in the road.

“No.”

“Seriously?”

“Fiction wasn’t really integral to my education,” Castiel says dryly.

“Yeah, but still,” Sam says disbelievingly, and Castiel can barely make out his tall silhouette. “That’s how Dean and me used to keep each other awake on long trips.”

“By scaring each other half to death?”

Sam chuckles. “It works.”

“There must be downsides.”

“We were always a little jumpy,” Sam admits. He snickers. “Dean once almost peed his pants ‘cause he didn’t want to go by himself after Dad got really into it.”

Castiel’s eyebrows fly nearly to his hairline. “Your father participated?”

“Who do you think started it?” Sam asks rhetorically. “They’re the only stories he knows how to tell. That man can’t land a joke to save his life.”

“I don’t see the appeal of being scared.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Sam sighs. “Now Dean and I only talk about how to divvy up funds or who we should hit up next.”

“Will we be moving soon?”

“Maybe a day or two,” Sam says. “Usually we try to get the hell outta dodge after we score – but with Dean the way he is, we had to wait.”

“Understandable,” Castiel murmurs. “Where is our next location?”

“Montcrieff,” Sam says, “Near Purgatorio. Charlie has some good intel Pierce has some underhanded deals with vamps, so that’s where we’re going.”

They ride on. To Castiel’s chagrin, Sam launches into some sort of Terran legend about the Woman in White. The spirit in the tale only haunts roads – and Sam seems to delight in including details from the very road they are riding on. When a leaf flutters down and unexpectedly hits Castiel in the face, he almost falls off Impala.

Laughing, Sam helps Castiel check that none of his flailing dislodged their purchases and quickly wraps up the story – only to start on another one, this time about a feral cannibal in the woods.

Unable to focus on the road in front of them or the woods on either side, Castiel silently curses Sam and all of his ancestors. But when Sam offers to stop midway through, Castiel begrudgingly finds he needs to hear the end or he will get absolutely no sleep that night.

Sam’s third story, about a witch masquerading as young girl, takes them all the way back to camp.

* * *

Over the next couple of days, Sam’s words about his brother and Meg’s observations occupy most of Castiel’s thoughts. Dean still avoids him. His gaze skitters away whenever Castiel looks in his direction, closely followed by the rest of him. 

When Sam finally asks Castiel to assess Dean’s health for travel, Castiel nearly says no. Still, he makes his way to Dean and Sam’s tent an hour two later after Meg gives him a profanity-ridden pep talk with more than one threat to Dean’s person (and dick) if he rejects Castiel’s advances.

Castiel can’t tell if he’s relieved or angry that Sam’s nowhere to be found when he’s alone with Dean for the first time since Dean was in rut. Dean is sitting up in bed, poring over two sets of maps in his lap.

“Hello Dean,” Castiel says as he approaches. 

“Clarence!” Dean yelps, starting badly. “What’re you doing here?”

“Sam asked me to stop by. I’m to assess if you’re fit for the journey to Montcrieff.”

Dean’s mouth purses. “I’m fine. You can tell Sam to stop worrying.”

Castiel reaches out and removes the maps. “I will not. You know that’s an impossible task.”

“Yeah, the big freak is a worrywart,” Dean mutters as he lays back. “Make it quick, alright? I got things to do.”

“It will take as long as it takes,” Castiel says as he begins inspecting the bruise on Dean’s ribs (maybe a fraction of a shade lighter, but still the same size) and the scrapes along his arms (practically gone). 

Dean hisses as Castiel peels back the large bandage on Dean’s abdomen and cleans out the wound. Scabs have formed on the edges, creeping in to cover maybe half of the width of the cut. Blood wells, bright and red, as Castiel probes it with his finger. With a sigh, he grabs a new roll of bandages and sets aside the old one for cleaning.

“How’s it look?”

“Not great,” Castiel tells him bluntly. “This one is still bleeding.”

“Shit.”

“No infection, though,” Castiel says as secures the cloth around Dean’s middle and moves up,

“But I can ride, right?”

“Not if you want to undo all your progress.” He bites his lip as he peers at the deepest stabbing, above Dean’s heart. It’s completely scabbed over, thank the gods, but not halfway healed. He quickly replaces that bandage too.

“Fuck this! We need to get out of here. Gordon’s going to find us any day now, and we’re sitting ducks.”

“I can’t let you bleed out on the road.” Castiel sits back on Sam’s bed and regards Dean with cautious eyes.

“Gods damn it!” Dean roars. His jaw clenches, eyes flickering over to Castiel, frozen with shock at his outburst. “Shit,” he mutters. He reaches up to rub his hand down his face. “I can’t be the reason we’re all caught. I can’t be,” he mumbles through his fingers.

Tentatively, Castiel lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing as the warmth from Dean’s body bleeds through the cloth separating their skin. “We’ll find a solution,” he says quietly. “There are other ways than travelling on horseback, you know.”

“No, there aren’t,” Dean says automatically, even as his expression turns thoughtful.

“Doesn’t Garth have a cart?”

“For Benny’s larger pots and some tent stuff,” Dean supplies, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“But a person could fit in it.”

Scandalized, Dean hisses, “I’m not riding in a _ cart _ all the way to Montcrieff.”

“It might be your only option,” Castiel points out. “And we don’t need to ride in a cart the whole way there. Only until we find a better transport for you.”

“Like what, a carriage?” Dean scoffs.

“If we can afford one.”

Dean grimaces. “Charlie might be able to help out,” he says. He kicks at the maps piled at the foot of his bed. “It wouldn’t be much of a detour to swing by her way. Risky, but doable.”

“That’s good,” Castiel encourages. His eyes flick up, once, to Dean’s face before he looks away. “I – Sam will be expecting me to report back. I’ll let him know of the outcome of our discussion.” He makes to leave, but Dean calls him back before he can take one step.

“Clarence, I’m sorry.”

Castiel blinks, his mouth already turning down in a frown of confusion. “Sorry for what?”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters as he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out a slow breath. He opens them, his mouth set in a grim line before he starts to explain, “Sorry for all that shit I put you through when I was in rut. I… was an out of control ass.”

“You were manageable,” Castiel says diplomatically. “And it was my fault you were in rut in the first place.”

Dean’s scent colors with embarrassment and an undercurrent of what may be regret. “Just ‘cause dying was the only other option.”

“Ah, yes, but that wasn’t preferable,” Castiel says awkwardly.

Dean sighs as he settles himself back on his cot. “Anyway. Just wanted to apologize.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. I knew I was never in any real danger.”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “How the hell did you know that?”

Castiel swallows, his face softening. “Because I trust you, Dean.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath. “You shouldn’t.”

“Unfortunately, that is not up to you,” Castiel says gently. “Yesterday, Sam told me you don’t think you deserve good things. That is not true.” His nose wrinkles at the strength of Dean’s disagreement, but he plows on, “You deserve everything.”

Dean breaks. “You can’t be serious,” he chokes out.

“I don’t joke.”

Dean shakes his head a couple times and lets out a shaky laugh. “Gods,” he mutters. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Meg often tells me I’m very strange,” Castiel says hesitantly. Judging Dean’s expression, that’s not what he means. Not entirely.

Apropos of nothing, Dean says, “Sam told me you ran into your old buddies from Paradiso – when you were out.”

“Anna Milton, yes,” Castiel confirms. “Why?”

Dean ignores his question. “He said she offered to take you home.”

Reluctantly, Castiel admits, “She did.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

Castiel hesitates. He can tell Dean the same thing he told him before he left; he owes Dean and Sam. He can’t leave them with limited means of taking care of themselves. They need a healer, and he fits the role.

Instead, he says simply, “Because you’re here.”

Dean flushes, and though he doesn’t speak, the sheer rush of disbelieving pleasure filling the space between them does most of the talking. “Me?” he croaks.

Castiel nods once, fighting to keep his face impassive as his insides riot like a thunderstorm. Dean didn’t dismiss him. Sam and Meg might be right. Castiel might have a chance.

“Why, man?”

“I believe I made my feelings perfectly clear,” Castiel says, a little annoyed at having to repeat himself – having to lay his soul bare while Dean just sits there.

“Right, yeah,_ so clear,” _ Dean says sarcastically. He inhales a shuddering breath as his eyes rake over Castiel’s face. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

Castiel gapes at him before throwing his hands in the air. “Why would I? What benefit would flattering your ego _ possibly _ serve me?”

Dean blinks at him for a moment, entirely taken aback, before he starts laughing, great big belly laughs. “None. There's absolutely no fucking benefit.”

Castiel’s hope dwindles the longer he stands there with Dean just laughing at him. He glowers, frown deepening as Dean wipes at the corners of his eyes. “Right, well,” he says stiffly, “if you’re done, I’ll go find Sam.”

“Done?” Dean repeats blankly.

“Yes, done.” Castiel sweeps his hand in his direction. “You’re not fit for horseback, but might be fit for other methods of travel. I assume Sam will have to find someone to get in touch with Charlie.”

“You… don’t wanna talk?”

_ “Now _ you want to talk?” Castiel barks, a hysterical tinge to his voice. “You’ve been avoiding me for _ days. _ Every time I approach, you flee like a startled fawn.”

“You’re a… startled fawn.” Dean makes a face.

Castiel is not amused. “I’m going to leave now.”

“Hey, Clarence, hold on–” Dean struggles to his feet. “Yeah, I wanna talk.”

Castiel bites his lip. Maybe if Dean has the chance to speak plainly, Castiel can escape all the sooner. The tent has already begun to smell off, no doubt from Castiel’s displeasure with the entire situation. “What do you want to talk about?” he asks warily. 

“You and me,” Dean as he takes a slow step closer.

Castiel’s heart ratchets up to doubletime. And no, he did not think this plan through. Dean will say his piece, maybe make a few more jokes at Castiel’s expense, and Castiel will never trust Sam or Meg ever again. Castiel knew _ from the very beginning _Dean didn’t covet his company the same way Castiel did his. An alpha in rut needs an omega, and Castiel was the best available option.

“We don’t have to talk about that,” Castiel says quickly. “Sam said – well, that’s not important. I didn’t believe him, so it doesn’t matter. We can go on as we were.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Sam said what about me?”

“It’s nothing.” Castiel’s gaze flutters around the tent, anything not to settle on Dean’s face. “I didn’t believe him,” he repeats, a flush rising to his cheeks. “You don’t have to concern yourself.”

“What did he say?” Dean asks again.

Castiel shakes his head, muttering, “That you… desired me like I did you.”

Dean swears under his breath, and Castiel has never felt smaller in his life – not even when Metatron did his damndest to squash him under his royal shoe like an ant. He bites his lip, hot all over with shame.

“Look, Clarence,” Dean says as he runs a hand through his hair distractedly, “He shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Yes, I know that now.” Castiel takes another step back. “I’ll just be going, and we can forget this ever–”

“I should have been the one to tell you,” Dean interrupts.

Castiel’s brain stutters. “Excuse me?”

“I should’ve told you what was… going on with me. Not Sam.” Dean grimaces.

Castiel stares, struggling to make sense of Dean’s words. “And what exactly was going on with you?”

Disgruntled, Dean makes a face. “‘Course you’re going to make me say it,” he says under his breath. He doesn’t seem too upset, though. “I was trying to figure out if you meant all that stuff you said.”

Castiel throws him an incredulous look. _ “I _ wasn’t the one in rut. I’ve had full possession of my faculties the entire time I’ve known you.”

Dean snorts, “Yeah, I know. But there are other factors at play here, see?”

“Not really.”

Dean musters up a rueful smile as he takes a few steps closer, close enough to reach out and capture Castiel’s wrist in a loose grip. He rubs his thumb in slow swipes across the tender skin, and Castiel has to concentrate to make sense of his words. “I know how it works around here. When I say jump, most people say ‘how high?’ Me ‘n Sam are in charge of how we divvy up resources, where we go, what we do. How could I fucking know if you really wanted this? The power imbalance, man.”

“You really thought I’d just go along with whatever you wanted?” Castiel asks, a little taken aback.

Dean lifts his good shoulder in a half-shrug. “I dunno.”

“When have I ever, in all the time you’ve known me, done things _ the easy way?” _ Castiel demands. “I don’t ‘go with the flow.’”

Smiling, Dean gives a minute tug on Castiel’s wrist, drawing him in. “You _ are _a stubborn bastard when you wanna be, I should’ve thought of that.”

Castiel goes. At this distance, he can make out the gold flecks in Dean’s green eyes, and the faintest spray of freckles on his forehead, nose, and cheekbones above his beard.

“You sure?” Dean asks, and even now Castiel can still hear the hesitancy in his voice.

Castiel cuts him off with a kiss.

It’s not his first one. He had an incident with a noble once or twice, but Balthazar never pressed for more than furtive hand holding or stolen kisses even though he clearly wanted more. Before they could go any further, Castiel’s father determined Balthazar the rightful heir in an inheritance dispute, and Balthazar moved back to his estate, victorious. Castiel never saw him again.

Dean’s kiss blows all Castiel’s past experience out of the water.

He cups Castiel’s jaw gently, slotting their mouths more firmly together. His other hand comes around to rest lightly on the small of Castiel’s back. His beard scrapes against Castiel’s cheeks, and the first press of his tongue takes Castiel by surprise. When he teases his lips open ever so gently, Castiel’s knees nearly give out.

“Gods,” Dean murmurs into his skin as he dips his head to scent Castiel properly. “I never thought I could have this.” He noses against Castiel’s neck, his breath hot against his skin.

“Neither did I,” Castiel says truthfully as he sags against Dean.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s hands are on him in an instant, drawing them flush together. Castiel makes a noise of surprise that quickly dissolves into a moan as Dean ducks his head, nose burrowing into the crook of his neck as his lips worry the skin above Castiel’s scent gland.
> 
> Castiel rakes his fingers through Dean’s short hair, holding him close and keeping his head anchored in place. 
> 
> Dean’s hips grind against his, and the tent floods the tent with the scent of his arousal. Dean groans, straightening as his hands cup Castiel’s cheeks. “You’re fucking incredible,” he breathes, nostrils flaring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be porn... and plot. But mostly porn.

Before they leave, Sam demands another test of Castiel’s prowess with a blade. Dean, apparently, deserves nothing but the best protection Sam can find or provide himself. With Dean cheering him on from the sidelines (and shit-talking Sam), Castiel wins three out of five bouts against his brother.

Dean does end up riding in the cart, at least for a little while. Charlie nearly falls to the floor laughing as Dean clambers out, scowling and swearing. He throws the layer of blankets and laundry hiding him to the ground, completely unrepentant as Castiel bends down to pick them back up. Charlie doesn’t help at all, teasing him constantly until she waves them off.

At least Castiel can converse better with Dean in the open wagon Charlie provides – a carriage was unavailable – especially as Dean throws aside most of the coverings once they cross the border out of Walker lands.

The journey to Montcrieff is much more pleasurable than Castiel’s last road trip. Even the constant stream of fresh air can’t entirely clear the scent of happy alpha and pleased omega. Each lungful sends Castiel’s head spinning in the best possible of ways. 

The first night, they only stop in the early hours of the morning, trying to put as many miles between them and Gordon as possible. They sleep in the bed of the wagon, side-by-side. When Castiel wakes up in the morning, his leg is sandwiched between one of Deans, and Dean’s arm is thrown possessively over Castiel’s torso. But instead of waking to a stony face and cold shoulder, Castiel’s worries are kissed away before they can even form properly.

The next night, Dean insists on splurging on a night at an inn. Castiel, still wary of Dean’s injuries, doesn’t object. They wind up purchasing dinner too, and the barmaid sends them a complementary slice of pie for dessert after Dean tells her, not quite truthfully, that they’re a newly mated pair.

“So worth it,” Dean groans as he leans back in his chair.

“I thought you couldn’t eat any more,” Castiel says, eyebrows raised as he takes in their clean plates and empty glasses of ale. 

Dean’s eyes narrow. “There’s always room for pie.”

Castiel just shakes his head and moves to stand.

“Help me up.”

Castiel snorts as he reaches out a hand to help Dean. “Aren’t you the one who is supposed to be doing this? You’re the alpha, after all.”

“Yeah, but you hate that crap,” Dean says casually as he lumbers to his feet. “Plus, I’m injured.”

“How could I forget.”

Dean grins at him as they leave the crowded tavern. Castiel, too caught up in Dean’s smile, almost trips over a patron’s outstretched foot. With an absentminded, “Apologies,” he follows Dean out onto the street and into the inn.

Their room is of far superior quality than the one they rented. The bed seems big enough to hold two people and is covered by a blanket _and_ a quilt. Dean falls onto it as Castiel drops their bags carrying their essentials and valuables on the floor.

“So,” Dean starts as Castiel takes a seat next to him. “It’s still early.”

“It is.”

Dean drags him closer, and Castiel takes care not to let too much of his weight fall on him. Castiel once again devotes himself to the task of memorizing every inch of Dean’s mouth, every slick slide of his tongue, even every scratch from his beard. Dean’s alpha scent bubbles over with arousal, and Castiel has to break away, gulping in huge breaths of air, but his head still swims with the heady rush of pheromones coming off the pair of them.

Not put out in the slightest, Dean moves with him, ducking his head to mouth at Castiel’s neck. Teeth gently bite and suck at the tender skin at the hollow of Castiel’s throat, and Castiel can’t hold in the whine as Dean’s lips take a hard turn left to land right on his scent gland. 

“Like that?” Dean murmurs.

Castiel nods vociferously, nearly hitting Dean in the face with his chin. Dean chuckles as his hands slip under the back of Castiel’s shirt, the hard calluses on his palms rasping against the small of Castiel’s back and slipping lower… lower… and lower still.

_ “Dean,” _ Castiel moans as Dean roughly squeezes his ass.

“Yeah?” Dean’s eyes twinkle as Castiel automatically shuffles higher on the bed so Dean can reach more of him. “You good?”

Castiel just nods his head, shifting his legs and biting his lip as the dampness registers. 

“Gods,” Dean murmurs as his fingers dip to feel for himself. “You’re wet.”

“Yes, that does happen when I’m aroused,” Castiel grumbles.

Dean laughs, light, breathy chuckles that puff against Castiel’s cheek. “You’re killing me here.”

Castiel frowns as Dean presses a swift, heated kiss to his lips and gently pushes him off. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“What’s wrong?” Dean repeats, eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong is that I’m about to pop a knot in my pants like a teenager.”

“Oh. Should we move slower?”

Dean snorts. “Pretty sure I’ll end up the same place no matter what pace we go.”

Castiel sits back, face troubled. “So you don’t want to… have sex?” Dean certainly _ smells _ like he wants to have sex. The powerful scent wafting off his skin – for once not manically tinged like during his induced rut, more organic. More _ Dean. _

“What the fuck?” Dean startles, incredulous. “Of course I want to have sex.”

Castiel throws Dean a flat look. “Then what is the problem?”

“You, I guess.”

Castiel recoils. _ “Me?” _

Dean rolls his eyes as his hands skim across his skin to land gently on Castiel’s hips. “You don’t strike me as the type to want to get knocked up on their first try.”

“I won’t get pregnant.”

“Oh, I’ve done this dance before,” Dean says darkly. “I know you can get pregnant outside of heat. Not fucking likely, but it can happen.”

Castiel smiles, a tiny bit pleased Dean bothered to remember that bit of information. “Yes, I suppose I can, but not after drinking the tea I made before we left the Walker lands.”

“Tea?” 

“It prevents against unwanted children,” Castiel adds. He tips his head towards their bags. “It’s in my waterskin.”

A wide grin spreads across Dean’s face before it fades, replaced with a cautious not-quite frown. “Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?”

“Do you?”

_ “Hell no,” _ Dean says emphatically. “But it’s gonna be your first time. Shouldn’t it be special?”

“Who says it won’t be special?” Castiel demands. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Dean ducks his head, his scent flooding with pleased embarrassment. “If you wanna think about it like that,” he mumbles. “I can’t stop you.”

“Good,” Castiel says with relish. “As you said, I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.” He reaches for the hem of Dean’s shirt. Slowly, not to catch the fabric on any of Dean’s injuries, Castiel lifts it over his head. “Teach me how to touch you.”

Dean swallows, and Castiel is hit with a new wave of his scent. “Fuck,” he rasps, “do you know what you do to me?”

“I’m beginning to have an idea.” Castiel sends a pointed look at between Dean’s legs, at the clear outline of his hard cock. Nervously he lays a hand on Dean’s thigh, slowly sliding his palm closer, and closer, waiting for Dean to say something.

Dean watches him with hooded eyes. “That’s it,” he murmurs as his legs widen a little.

Castiel runs a curious finger down the length still hidden by Dean’s trousers.

Dean’s cock jumps. Castiel flinches back.

“Sorry.” Dean reaches for Castiel’s hand and puts it back where it was. “I, uh, didn’t mean to do that.”

Castiel licks his lips as he presses down, rubbing light strokes over the fabric. “It’s quite alright.”

Dean closes his eyes, throat working furiously. He asks eventually, “Can I take my pants off?”

Castiel squeezes Dean once, and Dean lets out a small groan. “Please?”

“Of course, but only if you let me help.”

Dean grins as he lays back, wiggling his hips so Castiel can tug them off. “You’re turn next, angel,” he says with a pointed look up and down Castiel’s completely clothed body.

“Right, yes,” Castiel says as he struggles out of his shirt and trousers too. He throws them on the floor by the bed, along with Dean’s pants.

“Gods, you’re gorgeous,” Dean marvels as his hand reaches out to trail just above Castiel’s heart, all the way down to draw back right before he gets to his cock. “I can’t believe I get to have you.”

Castiel hesitates. Dean wants to _ have _him? Cautious, he asks, “Should I present?”

Dean’s brow furrows. “Only if you want to,” he says with a light shrug. “It’s not the most comfortable position for your first time, though. But if you want to stick to the classics, you can’t get much more traditional than that.”

Castiel sits back on his heels, his nerves growing. “I don’t want it to hurt,” he tells Dean, ashamed for his juvenile fears.

“Then we’ll do it a different way,” Dean promises as he wraps his hand around the back of Castiel’s neck to draw him in for another kiss. “I don’t want you to hurt either.” He draws away, his eyes flickering all over Castiel’s face. “You’ll tell me if it does, right?” he asks. “Don’t be stoic about it. If you’re in pain, we’re doing something wrong. You got that?”

“But – isn’t it supposed to?”

Dean snorts. “Not if you do it right.”

“I don’t mean for the alpha. For the omega.”

“Not for you either. I’m serious. If you don’t like it, let me know. I won’t enjoy it if you’re not either, capisce?”

Castiel swallows nervously. “I... capisce.”

“Good.” Dean seals their mouths together as his hand drifts down to cup the curve of Castiel’s jaw. Teeth nip playfully at his lower lip, and Castiel’s ass flexes – a vain effort to keep the slick from gathering. He’s not dripping yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

“Dean,” Castiel moans as Dean’s mouth drifts down, trailing a line of burning hot kisses down his neck to lap at his scent gland. He laves at the tender skin with a single-minded purpose, and the repeated touch of his wet tongue sends shivers down Castiel’s spine all the way down to his toes. Castiel’s omega scent blooms, potent and sweet, between them. Dean smiles against his skin, lips pressing with a gentle warmth.

“Here,” Dean murmurs as he shifts their bodies so Castiel is more or less on top of him.

Castiel hisses as their cocks brush for the first time, his hips bucking instinctively.

“Slow down, angel.” Dean is grinning up at him. “We’ll get there. Just not yet.”

“What,” Castiel pants, his breaths coming in shallow bursts as Dean’s hands settle squarely on his ass and begin kneading. “What do you have planned?”

“Gotta get you ready.” Dean touches Castiel’s hole, and Castiel’s whole body twitches in response. “What, did you think I was just going to stick my dick in you?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel groans, unable to focus on anything but Dean’s finger circling his rim, maddeningly light. “I don’t know_ anything.” _

“That’s what makes this so fun,” Dean says, clearly suppressing laughter. 

Castiel frowns. “I do not see the humor in making me wait.”

“If you can still string a sentence together, then I am not doing my job right,” Dean grumbles. He pushes his finger in, and Castiel’s retort turns into choked off gasp. “Fuck,” Dean swears as he goes deeper, “You feel so fucking good.”

Castiel tenses around the foreign object, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Sucking me in, like you can’t get enough.” Dean probes deeper, fingers searching for something. 

Castiel’s back arches, every nerve in his body lighting up.

“Like that?” Dean brushes against that spot, and Castiel’s clenched teeth can’t keep quiet his corresponding whine. “I think you do,” Dean continues in a gentle whisper. “I think you can’t get enough of it. I can see it all over your face. Gods, your gorgeous like this.”

Dean adds another finger, and Castiel doesn’t bother trying to muffle his corresponding moan.

“You doin’ okay?”

Castiel nods into Dean’s shoulder as his hands curl into the bedsheets, eyes still closed.

“Good. C’mere.”

Castiel lifts his head, and Dean's focused gaze on Castiel’s lips tells him all Dean needs. Their mouths come together, lips still swollen and reddened from earlier. Dean’s tongue presses lightly against the seam of Castiel’s lips, and Castiel lets him in with a barely-there exhale.

Dean’s fingers pick up speed inside him, quick brutal thrusts that have Castiel’s breath hitching in his chest. And, finally, Dean is starting to show the first signs of being as affected as Castiel. Pupils blown wide, he groans as Castiel’s hips steadily rock against his, in time with the fingers busily working in and out of his ass.

“Do you want another finger?” Dean asks, his voice barely audible, “or do you want my cock?”

“Your cock,” Castiel rasps. It’s not even a choice.

“Good, ‘cause my hand was starting to cramp,” Dean says with a wry grin. “Up.” 

Castiel lifts onto his hands and knees, hovering above him. His arms tremble under his weight, weak already from Dean’s ministrations.

“You’ll have to be on top,” Dean says as he grabs Castiel by the hips to steady him, “since I don’t want to start bleeding in the middle of the main event.” He gives his cock a few experimental tugs, breathing heavily.

Castiel squints down at him. “Are you alright?” 

“Just a little sensitive. Been a while, you know.”

“Is that bad?”

Dean pulls a face. “It is if I want to last. But that’s my problem. I’ll let you know when I’m close, and we can work it out from there. Go slow,” he says, eyes hooded with desire as he slides his hand up and down his shaft once more, carefully avoiding the head.

Castiel shuffles into place, freezing a little at the first touch of Dean’s cock to his entrance.

“Slowly,” Dean reminds him. “Remember if you’re hurtin’, we can try something else.”

Castiel slowly sinks down, the blunt head spearing him open like nothing before. Dean's cock feels enormous inside him. The stretch burns a little, but it’s the last thing on Castiel’s mind as the wet, slick slide goes on for ages and ages until he’s fully seated. He tries to breathe through it, but he can’t get enough air in his lungs.

“Holy fuck,” Dean swears as Castiel swallows him up completely. 

Castiel gives his hips an experimental roll. Dean’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. Inhaling sharply, his hands fly to Castiel’s hips, one still slippery with slick.

Castiel does it again, gasping as Dean’s dick pulses inside him. 

“You’re the one in control here, angel,” Dean tells him as Castiel meets his gaze, uncertain. “You feel fucking incredible.”

Castiel nods. He lifts himself up, almost off of Dean’s cock altogether, and slams back down. Dean’s gasp sounds like it’s punched out of him. He jerks under Castiel, his fingers squeezing almost hard enough to bruise.

“Is this alright?”

“Is this–” Dean breaks off incredulously, releasing Castiel’s hips to cradle his face. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.” He pulls him closer. 

_ “Oh!” _The change in angle makes Castiel moan. 

“Feel good?”

Beyond words, Castiel can only whimper into Dean’s neck as his arms lose the fight keeping him up. He sinks down onto Dean's chest, elbows resting at his shoulders.

“That’s it,” Dean murmurs into his ear. He presses a kiss to his cheek. “I’ve got you.” His hips snap up, jolting Castiel. 

Castiel cries out. He lifts his head, trying to gauge Dean’s expression. “Your wounds–”

“Fuck ‘em,” Dean growls as one hand buries itself in Castiel’s sweaty hair and the other wraps around his back, holding them together. “I’ll go slow, okay?” And without waiting for an answer, he starts _ moving, _ slow, like he said, sensuous rolls of his hips that make Castiel feel every inch of his cock as it thrusts in and out of his ass.

“By the gods,” he breathes.

Dean’s cock presses against his prostate in long, excruciating slides that send Castiel shuddering and gasping under the onslaught. 

“Just wait,” Dean murmurs as he slips his slick-covered hand between them.

Castiel spasms as fingers close around his cock. No matter how he moves, there’s no escape. Every shift of his hips shoves Dean’s cock further inside him or his hands squeezing tighter around the sensitive head of his erection.

Dean groans as Castiel’s ass clenches after a particularly hard thrust. He bites out, “Don’t do that, unless you want to end things real fast.” 

His hips don’t stop, though, and Castiel can barely take it anymore. “I can’t help it,” he says helplessly.

Dean tilts his head, biting his lips as his eyes rake over Castiel’s face. “How about we wrap this up, then? I don’t want you to be sore in the morning.”

Castiel huffs a laugh that’s more of a sob. “I’m going to be sore regardless of how much longer we carry on.”

“Well, I don’t want you to be too sore to do this again real soon,” Dean says with a wicked grin. “What do you say, angel?”

Castiel can only nod.

Dean grins before he picks up the pace, hips snapping with increasingly lewd squelching noises, and Castiel has never been never been this wet before. Slick drips all the way down to the divot behind his knees. Dean is biting his lip, brow furrowed in intense concentration. Castiel studies Dean’s face until he can’t anymore, until it all becomes too much. And with one list final twist of Dean’s hand over the head of his cock, he comes.

He collapses completely on top of Dean, legs sagging on the bed, but Dean doesn’t abate in the slightest. “Can I knot you?” he asks breathlessly.

Castiel nods, beyond words.

Dean fucks himself to completion a few thrusts later, groaning and chest heaving as his knot swells inside Castiel’s channel, locking them together.

“So?” Dean turns to him, a weary but triumphant grin on his face. “Not bad for your first time, eh?”

* * *

Castiel and Dean are some of the last to arrive in Montcrieff. Sam immediately pounces on his brother and whisks him away to begin planning their trap for Pierce.

Meg finds Castiel before long. “Good trip?” she asks, nostrils flaring as she makes a blatant show of scenting him.

“It was fine,” Castiel says stiffly as he gathers the canvas of their disassembled tent in his arms. He fairly reeks of Dean (and probably vise-versa) but he doesn’t find himself bothered in the slightest. “Get the poles, will you?”

“Yes, sire,” Meg mutters under her breath as she gives him a sarcastic salute.

Castiel’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t say anything further in earshot of the other outlaws. “How was your journey here?” he asks politely.

“Fine,” Meg dismisses. “Almost ran into the king’s men, but Jo lost them before they even recognized us.”

Castiel's concern spikes. “But you are alright?”

Meg pats his cheek condescendingly. “Sure am, champ.”

Castiel rolls his eyes as he unfolds the canvas and Meg sets down the poles on the ground. This new campsite features more trees than before – tents have to be pitched around them since there is no open area that can accommodate more than two tents at once.

“Come on,” Castiel mutters as she gets to work. “It’ll be dark soon.”

They all have a communal dinner that night, a feast of stew and real, fresh bread Benny and Garth bought on the way over. He even bought two pies, to Dean’s delight.

“You had pie last night,” Castiel reminds him as Dean digs in with enough gusto to rival five men.

“No such thing as too much pie,” Dean scoffs before he shoves his face with more food.

Next to him, Sam merely rolls his eyes and drops his half-finished slice in Dean’s lap. “How’re you feeling?”

Dean swallows with difficulty. “Good.”

“Do you, uh, want the tent to yourself for the night?” he asks.

Dean, brazenly shameless, grins at Sam. “Not even going to put up a fight?”

“No.” Sam’s nose wrinkles as Castiel reddens. “Since I’m pretty sure you’d do it even if I was there. I just figured I’d spare myself the scarring.”

Dean claps him on the shoulder, nearly dislodging his new plate of pie. “That’s why you’re the smart one.” He turns to Castiel. “Whaddya say? You up for another sleepover?”

“I – Dean,” Castiel says helplessly as he glances around the fire, his blush deepening. Nobody seems to be paying them any attention, but they’re hardly being _ quiet _ about his _ sex life. _

“He’ll definitely take you up on the offer,” Meg butts in. “Right, Clarence?”

Castiel merely nods, too embarrassed to do much else.

Sam turns to Meg. “Do you have room for one more?”

Meg smirks as she gives Sam a lewd once-over. “Boy, do I.”

Across the fire, Eileen rolls her eyes and gives Meg the finger.

“You could come along for the party too, sweetheart!” Meg announces.

Eileen ignores her, even though her shocked expression says she did lipread Meg’s suggestion.

Meg doesn’t seem put out, though. She gets up, stretching. “Well, I’m going to turn in for the night, boys. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Clarence.”

“Have a good night, Meg,” Castiel calls.

Sam also rises to his feet. “Don’t do it on my bed,” he tells Dean in a long-suffering voice.

Dean smirks. “I won’t make promises I can’t keep, bitch.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Sam groans. “Just… clean up after yourselves. I’ll be back in the morning.” And with that, he takes off after Meg.

“No use waitin’ around for nothin’,” Dean says with a grin as he jerks his head in the direction of his tent. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks as he follows Dean. “You're still injured.”

“Let me worry about that,” Dean says as he holds open one of the tent flaps for Castiel.

Once inside, Dean’s hands are on him in an instant, drawing them flush together. Castiel makes a noise of surprise that quickly dissolves into a moan as Dean ducks his head, nose burrowing into the crook of his neck as his lips worry the skin above Castiel’s scent gland.

Castiel rakes his fingers through Dean’s short hair, holding him close and keeping his head anchored in place. 

Dean’s hips grind against his, and the tent floods the tent with the scent of his arousal. Dean groans, straightening as his hands cup Castiel’s cheeks. “You’re fucking incredible,” he breathes, nostrils flaring. 

Castiel swallows, mouth dry. “I – _ Dean,” _ he says helplessly, at a total loss for what to say; how to convey how he feels about everything that has happened to him since he met Dean; since the indistinct series of moments he fell for Dean; since last night when Dean became acquainted with his body like no one else before, save Castiel himself. Dean dives back in again, kissing Castiel fiercely as he backs them up in the direction of his cot. 

Castiel sinks down on it as Dean climbs over him, their mouths still glued together.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs as he breaks away to get their clothes off. “Careful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says distractedly as Castiel gently tugs his shirt over his head. There’s a brief moment when Dean struggles to get his pants off in a graceful manner. He swears as they tangle around his ankles. Castiel can’t hold in a small snicker.

“Laugh it up,” Dean says darkly as he braces himself above Castiel, hands planted by his shoulders. Castiel gulps, unable to help the way his gaze drifts down from Dean’s face all the way to his cock hanging heavy between the vee of Dean’s legs.

Slowly, Dean lowers himself down. Castiel groans as Dean gives an experimental buck of his hips, a lascivious grin spreading across his face. He does it again, and Castiel inhales sharply as their cocks together – too much and not enough all at the same time.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” Dean says tenderly as he shuffles back onto his heels. He winces as he straightens. 

Castiel blinks over at him, already mourning the distance and lack of body heat.

Dean grins as he picks up one of Castiel’s ankles to press a fleeting kiss to the inside of his calf. Slowly, too slowly, he makes his way up Castiel’s leg. Truthfully, Castiel doesn’t see the point until Dean passes his knee. His mouth becomes more insistent, the kissing linger longer, and his tongue feels too hot against Castiel’s skin.

Dean surfaces before too long, but, to Castiel’s infinite frustration, it’s not to fuck him. It’s to talk, because Dean is nothing if not infuriating.

“There’s a vein here, did you know?” he says as his fingers dance along Castiel’s inner thigh.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Yes, I did know that,” he says impatiently.

Dean follows the artery with expert precision, one lone finger trailing feather light to Castiel’s groin. As Dean gets closer, Castiel’s dick jumps in response, not entirely of his own volition. Dean’s smile widens. “Eager, are we?”

Castiel huffs, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s fun?” Dean says, eyebrows raised. “Sometimes it’s all in the buildup. Sit back. Relax. Let me take care of you.”

“This doesn’t feel as good as when we were having sex,” Castiel complains even as he sits back like Dean told him to.

Dean chuckles under his breath. “Just wait and see.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean, who merely goes back to exploring Castiel’s body at his own gods damned leisure. He sucks a series of marks along his other thigh as Castiel squirms under the attention. When Dean’s mouth gets tantalizingly close to where Castiel is wet and aching, has the audacity to laugh as Castiel’s hands fly to bury in his hair, keeping his lips from straying too far again.

And then his mouth is on Castiel’s hole, and Castiel loses the ability to think. The coarse hairs of Dean’s beard scrape deliciously against the tender skin as his tongue dips in and out in teasing flicks, never deep enough. Castiel groans, hips bucking instinctively. Dean, unperturbed, merely grins up at Castiel with lips shiny with spit and slick as he deliberately places his palm right above Castiel’s groin to hold him down. “Relax.”

“I can’t,” Castiel pants.

“Try,” Dean orders, his alpha scent flaring.

Castiel’s mouth waters. He nods dumbly as both of Dean’s hands grasp him around the hips, tugging him closer. He dives back in again, and Castiel can’t hold back the wounded sound from the back of his throat as Dean’s tongue fucks him in earnest. No more little kitten licks. Dirty, wet noises come from between his legs, accompanied by Dean’s own groans of pleasure. 

Castiel has never been harder in his life, and Dean hasn’t even touched his cock yet.

Castiel’s back arches as he struggles not to come, every muscle in his body tense like a lute string. He squeezes his eyes shut, but that just amplifies everything Dean is doing to him.

The first press of Dean’s finger alongside his tongue takes him by surprise. His eyes fly open. Dean is grinning up at him, eyebrows waggling. “Like that?”

“I – ye – _ Dean!” _

“What?” Dean asks innocently as his finger brushes again against Castiel’s prostate.

_ “Dean!” _

“Love it when you say my name like that,” Dean grunts as he rubs mercilessly at that spot that makes Castiel cry out.

“Shh,” Dean mock-chastises. “You’ll wake everyone up.”

“You are _ horrible,” _Castiel gasps, struggling to get enough air inside his lungs to speak. He bites his lip, but, at Dean’s next thrust of his fingers, a cut-off whimper escapes just the same.

“Am I?” Dean slips another finger in.

Castiel jerks on the bed, his whole body buckling under the influence of Dean’s clever hands. Breathing raggedly, he hoarsely rasps out, after far too long, “I’m not going to last.”

“Kind of the point,” Dean says wryly as he hones in on Castiel’s prostate with alarming precision.

Castiel comes with a rough shout. Dean fingers him through it, catching most of Castiel’s release with his other hand. Idly, he licks it off as Castiel comes down, chest heaving.

“You are very good at that,” Castiel says hoarsely once he could speak.

“You will be too,” Dean says as he crawls up Castiel’s body to press a fleeting kiss to his lips. “Practice.” He sits back, just looking at Castiel’s face. “Gods, it smells good in here.”

Castiel merely shrugs.

“You good to keep going?” Dean asks. “You almost look ready to pass out.”

_ “You _ wore me out,” Castiel accuses without any heat. He doesn’t move, still basking in his post-orgasm afterglow.

“Guess I’ll just have to take of myself,” Dean says as he casts a mournful glance down at his hard length.

Castiel reaches over to give Dean a half-hearted stroke. Dean laughs.

“Do I have to move?” Castiel complains, head lolling in Dean’s direction.

“Not if you don’t want to,” Dean says. “I can get off just by looking at you. Nearly done it before.”

“Nearly?” Castiel asks curiously.

“I wanted to rub myself raw sleeping next to you that first time. I didn’t, though.”

_ “Oh.” _

Dean snorts. “You had no idea? Really?”

Castiel throws him a look. “If I did, I would have reacted to your bad mood the next morning very differently.”

“How?”

Castiel thinks it over for a moment, unhurried since Dean doesn’t seem too keen on rushing him even though he hasn’t come yet. Castiel would like to say he’d have propositioned Dean right then and there, but they had hardly known each other back then. A handful days and one night together. Now, this though… this feels right.

“We would have done this sooner,” he settles on eventually.

Dean grins. “You up for round two?”

One corner of Castiel’s mouth pulls up in a half-smile. “I could be persuaded.”

* * *

“I thought we were through with this shit.”

Castiel doesn’t bother turning around at Meg’s sixth complaint of the morning.

“The first frost hasn’t come yet, so there are maybe still some herbs worth collecting,” Castiel says without looking up from the base of the tree he’s inspecting.

“I thought you went into town for all the plant stuff you need.”

“It’s an unnecessary expense if I can find them here first.”

“I bet you just don’t want to be away from Dean for that long.” He can practically hear Meg’s sardonic scowl. 

“It’s a question of cost-savings. It’s not about Dean.”

“Denial doesn’t suit you,” she tuts like one of Castiel’s old castle tutors. “You’re practically attached at… the hip.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

“Who else would look after you if I wasn’t here, your _ first _plucky, better-looking better half?”

Castiel chuckles under his breath as he pulls at a suspicious looking plant that might be chamomile. He shuffles along the ground, peering into the shaded areas for a better look.

Something heavy thumps behind him.

Castiel jumps. They are in the middle of the woods after all, surrounded by nature an wild animals on all sides. He spins around, his question dying on his lips as Gadreel steps over Meg’s unconscious body, sword out and pointing at Castiel’s throat. 

“Never knew you were so chatty, sire,” he says by way of introduction.

Castiel swallows, as he struggles to make sense of the situation. “What are you doing here?” he demands, hand inching towards the blade at his hip. Is it just him, or have the trees gone quiet? Gadreel’s voice sounds strangely loud and muffled at once.

“I’m here to take you back,” Gadreel says.

Castiel’s world tips sideways. “You can’t,” he breathes.

“I think you find I can,” Gadreel says evenly as he takes another step closer. “Uh, uh, uh,” he chides as Castiel’s hand settles on the hilt. “One wrong move and I’ll kill her and all the rest of your merry gang back there.”

“You wouldn’t,” Castiel says, hands up in supplication as he scrambles to come up with a plan of escape. “There are at least ten fighters. You will be vastly outnumbered.”

“Is that so?” Gadreel asks, eyebrows raised. “You thought I came alone? Your uncle is very keen on getting you back. My men are circling as we speak.”

“You – you–”

“If you come with us, we won’t touch a hair on your mate’s pretty little head,” Gadreel adds over Castiel’s stutters. “Come quietly, now."

Castiel doesn't move. 

Gadreel’s face hardens. “Don’t make this difficult, Omega.”

Castiel surges forward, blade in hand. He backed down without a fight before; ran away from his problems. Not again.

Gadreel makes a noise of surprise but defends himself with a grimace. With a grating clang, their swords come together. “You’re killing all your friends,” Gadreel says through gritted teeth as he presses forward.

“They are capable of defending themselves,” Castiel prays. Dean has been very vocal about itching for a good fight even if he isn’t physically fit yet, and Sam and Jo are good as any in a fight. They were going to be fine. They had to be.

Gadreel’s jaw clenches as they circle each other, waiting for an opening. Castiel has never fought against Gadreel before – he was demoted from the King’s Guard a few years before Castiel began training and exiled to one of their outposts by the border. He was stationed near the small holding Metatron ruled with an iron fist before he was tapped as the next king after Castiel’s unfortunate presenting and King Charles’s untimely death.

Gadreel feints to the left. Castiel parries the blow as he spins around to avoid a kick to his knee. He advances with wide, sweeping slashes to kill. Gadreel is forced to back up, and Castiel nearly has him pressed against tree when a sharp pain bursts in his leg.

An arrow sticks out from the meat of his thigh.

Gadreel said he hadn't come alone.

“You _ did _insist on the hard way.” Gadreel pushes off the tree, breathing heavily. He waves his hand, undoubtedly to signal someone behind Castiel’s back. 

Castiel doesn’t sink to his knees, but has to list to his good side. His leg almost feels numb. Shock, probably.

"Meg stays."

"I don't think you're in a position to bargain," Gadreel says, almost amused. 

Meg can tell Dean and Sam what happened to him. Castiel's heart sinks in his chest, dread creeping in to cloud his vision. He will probably never see Dean again either way, but at least Dean will get some closure. He'll never know how much Castiel will treasure their short time together for the rest of his life. But maybe he will have an inkling. He was Castiel's first, after all. Not an insignificant thing for an omega. 

Gadreel gives some vague hand gesture over his shoulder, and another man appears silently from behind a tree, almost like he appeared out of thin air. 

"Get the beta bitch," Gadreel commands the new guard. 

"No!" Castiel rushes forward. He nearly falls on his face.

Gadreel grabs him before Castiel can take one step on his bad leg. He smoothly twists Castiel’s arms behind his back, forcing him to drop his blade. It falls to the ground with a crunch of dead leaves. A strange buzzing fills his head. The forest swims in front of his eyes.

“She’s coming with us,” Gadreel hisses in his ear. “We can’t kill you, but the King said she’s fair game. You’re a slippery one, and we need a way to keep you complacent.” He kicks Castiel in his good leg to get him moving, marching them in the opposite direction of the camp. 

Castiel lets out a pained grunt and drags his feet. 

They ride back to Paradiso like an invading army is on their tail, stopping only to switch out their exhausted horses. Castiel is confined to a carriage the entire way with Gadreel sitting, smug, on the opposite seat from his two bound prisoners. Meg’s unconscious body is propped up next to him. 

A few hours later, she makes an ear-splitting racket when she wakes up, nearly braining Gadreel as he stuffs a gag in her mouth.

Castiel tries to escape when Gadreel stops for a piss. With his hands tied behind his back, he doesn’t get very far before Gadreel bodily hauls him back. 

They arrive back in Paradiso after a day and a half of hard riding. The horses stop short in the castle courtyard, and Castiel is unceremoniously pushed out of the carriage. He doesn't fall to his knees, but he does stumble on his wounded leg. As he rights himself, the first person he sees is his uncle, grinning down at him. 

“Welcome home, Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a long wait for the next one - chapter 6 will be posted on Monday!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe, if Castiel does manage to become king, he can go track Dean down himself. He would need to organize a diplomatic visit to Terra sooner or later – as per royal tradition with new monarchs. 
> 
> But if he finds Dean, what kind of life could Castiel offer him? Dean was always extraordinarily vocal about his hatred of the nobility. He would never be content living in a castle, hemmed in on all sides by stone walls and nobles clamoring for attention.
> 
> What would he think of Castiel, if he knew Castiel wanted nothing more than to lead the very people he despised, all with Dean chained to his side?

“It’s been a while.” Metatron walks slightly ahead of Castiel, escorted by two armed guards to his room.

Castiel doesn’t respond. An entire week has dragged by per his estimates based around how often he was fed down in the dungeons. For the first two days, the only people allowed to visit were guards with pitiful meals and the castle physician – for the hole in his thigh. Then the physician was barred too, and Castiel was left entirely alone with his thoughts.

He limps along after Metatron, face impassive as his leg aches with every step.

“I hope your little time away has given you time to reevaluate your priorities,” Metatron continues. “Your marriage is back on, of course.”

“To who?” Castiel interrupts.

“The Prince of Terra.” Metatron shoots him an exasperated look, like he can't believe Castiel would ask such a stupid question. “Thankfully King John was entirely forgiving of the delays on your end – not that he has much of a leg to stand on when it comes to being a stickler for our agreed upon schedule.”

Castiel says nothing, and Metatron seems more than happy to prattle on.

“The Prince will be here in three weeks, can you imagine? We’ll have our work cut out for us, Castiel. Just think, an entire royal wedding planned and executed in under a month! Unheard of!”

_ Congratu-fucking-lations, _ Castiel hears in Dean’s voice, as if Dean was standing right next to him. Castiel stares down at the flagstones, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and not kicking Metatron in the shins like an angry toddler. Castiel spoke to Dean more than a few times in lock up. Sometimes the Dean in his head was understanding, whispering words of comfort while Castiel sat alone in the dark. Other times Dean was angry, dressing him down for being so careless, so stupid, such a _ dumbass. _

“Where is Meg?”

“Your servant?” Metatron asks, surprised. “Banned from seeing you. Strictly on chamberpot duty for the rest of her miserable stay here.”

Castiel released an almost imperceptible of relief. Meg, undoubtedly furious with her change of station, at least still lives.

“You’re welcome to take her with you to Terra,” Metatron adds. “She’s no use to us here.”

Castiel tunes out his uncle for the rest of their short trip to his old rooms. 

As they stand in front of the large door, Metatron chides, “You will be guarded day and night to make sure you don’t slip through our fingers again.” He waggles his finger in Castiel’s face. “No visitors and meals twice a day. Any questions? No? Good.”

Castiel scowls as Metatron locks the door behind him. He turns around to survey his new prison.

He’s not alone.

“Samandriel?” he breathes.

“Hello, sire.” His old manservant rises from where he had been crouching by the fire and dusts off his knees.

Castiel stumbles forward, stopping only a few paces as he catches sight of Samandriel’s apprehensive face.

“I thought you were dead,” Castiel says, his voice faint, as he reaches a hand out to grasp his shoulder. He’s real. 

Samandriel won’t meet Castiel’s gaze. “When Metatron captured me, I wished I was dead for a little while,” he says quietly.

Castiel’s heart breaks. “I’m so sorry, Samandriel.”

Samandriel’s face remains impassive. “He said I should be grateful that he let me live at all.”

Castiel’s mouth twists, as he tries to keep the judgment out of his voice. “Are you?”

“Grateful to the King?” Samandriel asks, the first notes of emotion bleeding into his words. “For torturing me and telling me how worthless I was until I betrayed you?”

“I don’t blame you if you did,” Castiel says around the lump in his throat. “Metatron didn’t find me immediately, so not all of your information was helpful.”

Samandriel smiles, a small thing that just barely touches the corners of his mouth. “I told them you went to Inferno.”

“You what?”

Samandriel shrugs. “Meg went with you, didn’t she? Metatron knows she came from there.”

“But she’d rather die than go back.”

His smile turns into a distinctive smirk. “I didn’t say he knew her _ well.” _

Castiel laughs for much longer than the situation warrants. Heady relief floods through his veins - Samandriel is here, _alive_ \- and he staggers back a few steps to sink down on his bed. “I can’t believe it,” he murmurs.

Samandriel tentatively takes a seat next to him. “How are you doing, sire?”

Castiel looks at him, really looks. Samandriel doesn’t look well. New lines crease his young forehead, and his hands shake a little in his lap before he clasps them tightly together, betraying nerves, fear, or something else altogether. 

“Are you alright?”

“Me?”

Castiel nods. “Yes.”

Samandriel’s brows furrow in confusion. “You would really like to know?”

“I’m sure it’s poor consolation now,” Castiel says, eyes scanning Samandriel's for any sign his words are unwelcome, “but I thought of you many times in Terra. I wanted to contact your mother, tell her what happened to you, but I couldn’t remember her name, just that she was from Naomi’s lands. I truly regret I left you behind to deal with Metatron on your own. Even after you were released, I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

Samandriel shakes his head. “Nobody would trust me for a long while,” he whispers. “They thought I turned on you too, but I couldn’t correct them without anyone else overhearing. I was utterly alone. Most of the staff was rooting for you, sire. I’m not sure you knew that.”

Tentatively, Castiel reaches over to pat Samandriel’s folded hands. He squeezes once. “I didn’t, but I am grateful. For you. For everyone.”

Samandriel breaks. Silent tears course down his face, and Castiel has a brief moment of panic before he draws Samandriel closer, hugging him to his chest. He has only ever embraced one servant before – and Meg was never one to initiate physical contact.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that.

A knock on the door jerks Castiel out of the hazy fog of his own grief and Samandriel’s, and one glance at his manservant tells him he’s not fit for seeing visitors. Castiel gently disentangles himself from Samandriel and wipes his face before getting the door.

“Yes?”

To his surprise, a familiar face greets him with a tray of food. 

“I had to fight Ingrid for this, and she’s a hair-puller,” Meg says as she sweeps past Castiel. She stops short at Samandriel, her eyes narrowing as she takes in his wet face, and drops the tray a few inches from his head. Hands on her hips, she swivels around to face Castiel. “I don’t have a lot of time, so here.” She thrusts a note at him. 

Dumbfounded, Castiel takes it from her. He doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but he can tell from a quick skim it’s from Anna.

“They’ll stand with you,” Meg says, pointing to a neatly printed list of names. “If you challenge Metatron.”

Astounded, Castiel rereads the list. Anna, Balthazar, and Hannah, he could have predicted. Even Hester, Rachel, and Inias, to some extent. But Bartholomew? Malachi? They hate each other. _Billie?_ She never leaves her domain if she can help it.

“I don’t understand.”

“They all hate the King.” Samandriel pushes himself up on Castiel’s bed, staring at the floor between Castiel’s feet. “Naomi has been trying to take control from him as soon as you left, but the nobility doesn’t like her either.”

“What’s wrong with Naomi?” Castiel asks.

Meg shrugs. “Don’t look at me. I was blissfully busy getting dirt up my ass and shitting in the woods with you.”

“They think she’ll be like Metatron – too power-hungry, controlling,” Samandriel says. “She tried to subtly expand into the eastern provinces around her land already, but Metatron and the rest shut her down. They, uh, weren’t happy with Metatron’s leadership, but it worked out.”

Gratitude rushes through Castiel as he looks at the pair of them. One, who stood by his side as they ventured into the unknown. The other, who stayed steadfastly loyal even as he was left behind.

“And they want me on the throne instead?” Castiel asks, bewildered. Anna had indicated as much when he saw her in-person, but at the time he had attributed it to shock, or nostalgia for their fond childhood memories of her yearly visits to the castle. Not for any reason this momentous. This is world-changing.

“You stepped down without a fight,” Samandriel says simply, “so you can’t be as power-hungry as Metatron or Naomi. It’s enough for now.”

Castiel sinks down on the stool by the fire, legs shaky. “They’ll fight for me?”

After a long pause, Samandriel says, “I don’t know about that.”

“Anna’s been organizing it,” Meg pipes up. “All in the past week. They’re all here, you know, in the castle. For the wedding. It's how she was able to organize all this already.”

“Oh.”

Meg stands. “If you need to strategize, do it through Alfie. He’ll be able to get messages in and out for you.” She sends a sour look at the door. “If Marv gets wind I saw you, he’ll have my head.”

“Thank you for coming, Meg,” Castiel says sincerely.

“Yeah, well, had to make sure you survived the dungeons,” Meg blusters as she strides across the room. “I see you’re clearly all here, depressed as hell, but here in one piece, so my job’s done.” She turns around, hand on the door handle. “Alfie – you did good, kid.”

* * *

Planning a coup involves much more sitting around than Castiel would have thought before he found himself in the middle of one. He sends Samandriel out later that day with a message for Anna – he agrees Metatron needs to be deposed, and if they want Castiel to rule after the revolt, he will. 

Over the next few days, they decide to oust Metatron via the royal council and use force as a last resort.

Anna pledges all her resources to the cause, and quickly gets Bartholomew and Hannah on board. Balthazar reluctantly agrees, and Malachi only if Castiel lowers his taxes (punitively raised by Castiel’s father ages ago for excessive violence in a skirmish with Bartholomew).

Billie is a no-go if the vote goes badly. Inias, Hester, and Rachel band together and all promise gold but not a single man if it comes to a fight.

Castiel finds himself cautiously pleased with the outcome. Especially after he is able to see their passion with his own eyes – Samandriel helps him sneak out in the middle of the night to personally visit Muriel, and together with Balthazar, they convince her to join his cause. He does the same with Anna to persuade Tyrus the next night. 

But during the day, he is left mostly to his own devices. He whiles away the hours telling Samandriel all about his adventures with Sam and Dean, keeping the more explicit parts to himself. 

Dean’s absence aches like a lost limb most keenly in the quiet of the day, but it also stings at night in the moments before he falls asleep. He drags his bedding to the floor most nights, unable to get comfortable on his too-soft bed. 

Meg visits him at the end of his first week of exile in his royal chambers. She sneaks in at the dead of night and doesn’t sound surprised in the least when she hears his explanation for his odd sleeping arrangements.

“How’re you holding up, Clarence?” she asks as she hops on his abandoned bed.

“Alright, I suppose,” Castiel says wearily as he stares up at the lofty stone ceiling.

“You’re a terrible liar. You’re going to be a terrible politician. I hope you know that.”

“Thanks, Meg,” he says sourly.

Meg doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I don’t think they’re looking for a politician, though,” she says in a quiet voice that still seems loud in the empty room. “They’re looking for a leader. And I think you’ve got the stuff.”

Castiel rolls over to face her, but he can’t see anything from this angle, with her splayed out on the bed and him on the floor. “Thank you, Meg.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I miss it. I miss them.” Castiel releases a long sigh. “I just wish I had time to say goodbye.”

Nothing from Meg. The silence stretches on, and Castiel would almost swear Meg fell asleep, but she coughs lightly. “I could do it for you.”

“Do what?”

“Find them,” Meg says shortly. “Let them know what happened to us. Gods know, Marv has better things to do than keep track of little ole me.”

“You’d do that?” Castiel breathes.

“Yeah,” Meg says as she shifts, sheets rustling, to the edge of the bed to peer down at Castiel. “Between me ‘n Alfie, I bet I can get out easier.”

“Find Charlie,” Castiel says fervently. “She lives in Walker. She’ll be able to tell you where Sam and Dean are – if they’ve moved on from Montcrieff already. She keeps tabs on them.”

Meg nods. 

“She’s a redheaded beta,” Castiel adds desperately. “You can try Baum’s Curiosity Shop if she’s not home.”

“Gotcha.” Meg sits up, swinging her legs around to rest on the floor. She wrinkles her nose, nostrils flaring as she probably scents his concern slowly filling the room. “I won’t fail, Clarence.”

“I – that’s not it,” Castiel falters, “Just, be safe.”

Meg’s face softens. “Are you worried about me?”

“Of course.”

She slips off the bed and bends down to press a quick, dry kiss to his forehead before getting back to her feet. “I can look after myself. You need to watch your own back. I checked out Samandriel – he’s clean, don’t worry – and I know you’ve got some heavy hitters on your side, but so does Metatron.”

Castiel gulps. “Yes, I realize that. But I have to _ try, _Meg.”

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.” She sighs. “I’ll leave in the next day or two. No point in putting it off.”

“Why?”

“Because if I see another chamber pot,” Meg seethes in a deadly level voice, “I’m going to throw it at Marv’s head and make him _ lick it clean?” _

“No,” Castiel stares up at her, “Why me? Why are you doing this all for me?”

Meg pauses, her expression oddly vulnerable. “I figured out one thing about this world – just one. You find a cause and you serve it. And you, you… you’re it for me.”

Warmth fills Castiel’s chest, like Meg lit a match right beneath his sternum. “I’m honored.”

Meg shakes her head, hair falling in her face. “Yeah, well, you should be. I’m a fucking marvel.” 

“But why me?” Castiel can’t help but press for more. 

“Digging for compliments, your Majesty?” Meg snickers, but there’s hardly any heat in her words. 

Castiel shakes his head. “I just want to know.”

She shrugs as she steps over him to the door. “You were nice to me. You cared.”

* * *

Samandriel reports Meg left next afternoon with nobody the wiser, save Anael from the stables, and they were able to buy her silence for a two-day head start as a precaution.

“Two weeks until your big day!” Metatron crows as he bursts into Castiel’s room unexpectedly that evening after dinner. He dumps a stack of books on Castiel’s desk, right on top of the book Castiel was reading.

Castiel has a brief moment of panic at his uncle's surprise appearance, but refrains from glancing at the fireplace and the charred remains of his latest correspondence with Anna.

“Yes,” he says slowly as he looks up at his uncle.

Two days remain until the council meeting. Castiel is barred from attending, of course, but he already made plans (through Samandriel) to bribe the guards to let him in if the vote goes in his favor. 

If it doesn’t, Anna has given him strict instructions to flee at once for Milton. Metatron won't be content locking Castiel up again with the support he has. The King would be out for blood. As would his followers.

Castiel still doesn’t know if he’d comply with Anna’s orders – a part of him, a large part of him, can’t imagine fleeing ever again.

“Did you come here to gloat?” Castiel asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Gloat?” Metatron repeats in shock, like the very idea had never occurred to him before. “Gloat that I have arranged the perfect marriage for you, guaranteeing you a life of luxury and the same high standard of living you currently enjoy?”

Castiel’s jaw clenches. “Gloat that you have once again robbed me of my freedom.”

Metatron’s fake smile dims a fraction. “If you insist on being ungrateful, then that’s on you.” He stands by the fire to warm himself, and Castiel bites his lip to keep himself from giving anything away.

“Is there anything I can get your Majesty?” Samandriel asks politely.

“No, this will be quick,” Metatron says as he turns back around. “I just wanted to let Castiel know the tailors will be stopping by tomorrow to take your measurements.” He tsks under his breath. “You’ve lost weight.”

Castiel glowers. “If that’s all…”

“No, it is _ not all,” _ Metatron says loudly. “This will be my last visit–” Castiel can barely keep himself from mockingly repeating the _ good fucking riddance _ that pops up in his head in Dean’s voice, “–since I have many other matters to attend to. Namely, _ your wedding _I am planning _ for you. _”

“I’m not thanking you for that, if that is what you are insinuating.”

Metatron ignores him. “King John and his sons will be arriving at the end of the week. Security outside your door will double, so don’t get any funny ideas. Meanwhile, I brought you reading material.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow at the stack of books on his desk. He reads the gold-embossed cover of the top one. Dean was right: they don’t look particularly exciting.

“The Winchester Gospels,” Metatron announces. “Read them. Get to know your in-laws. I’ve already gone through them, of course. It’s a good match, Castiel. You should really be thanking me.” Metatron sighs at Castiel’s continued stony silence. “King John will have his hands full with you for sure. Hopefully Prince Dean can whip you into shape where I have failed.”

Castiel’s blood boils. “Nobody will be whipping me into _ anything.” _

“Hey,” Metatron holds his hands up in the air in a false gesture of goodwill. “I don’t judge what you get up to between the sheets.”

Castiel’s mouth opens, but he’s so enraged no words come to mind.

“Gadreel gave a very _ thorough _ report when he came back with you in tow,” Metatron says in a dangerously low voice as he turns to leave. “If you whisper a word to anybody about what happened between you and that Terran outlaw, you won’t live to regret it. You hear me?” 

He doesn’t wait for a confirmation – not that Castiel would give him one – before he lets himself out.

Castiel sinks down at his desk, almost trembling with rage.

Metatron’s threat is an empty one. Castiel has no intention of talking about Dean to anyone – except Meg because she was there, and if Castiel keeps it bottled up entirely, he might explode. He doesn’t have anything to show for his time with Dean – the marks Dean left on his skin have long since faded, probably sometime when Castiel sat in the dark below the castle after his return to Paradiso. They didn’t exchange rings; they didn’t even exchange promises.

Dean doesn’t have anything sentimental of his either. 

They only had a few days together, after all. Barely a week. Not enough, certainly, for Castiel to _ mourn _ what they were.

Castiel inhales a shuddering breath as he clasps his hands together on his desk, staring across the room at nothing at all. 

Castiel got the impression Dean had many lovers in the past, even though he only explicitly mentioned having intercourse with prostitutes. But he’s a handsome alpha, smart and charming. There’s no possibility he hadn’t enticed many into his bed before Castiel. 

Maybe Meg will find him, and Dean will tell her he doesn’t need to hear her message. Maybe he’s already moved on. 

Hopefully Meg won’t share that reaction with Castiel.

Maybe, if Castiel _ does _manage to become king, he can go track Dean down himself. He would need to organize a diplomatic visit to Terra sooner or later – as per royal tradition with new monarchs. Along with Purgatorio and Inferno, of course. To announce his intentions to keep peace among the kingdoms.

But _ if _ he finds Dean again, what kind of life could he offer him? Dean was always extraordinarily vocal about his hatred of the nobility. He would never be content living in a castle, hemmed in on all sides by stone walls and nobles clamoring for attention.

Paradiso’s nobility might act more responsibly than Terra’s, but Dean never seemed to distinguish in his disdain for the whole bunch. He was intensely proud of his common status. He wouldn’t give it up for the world.

What would he think of Castiel, if he knew Castiel wanted nothing more than to lead the very people he despised, all with Dean chained to his side?

Castiel should put all thoughts of Dean out of his head. Every idle speculation of the future leads to inevitable heartbreak. No happy solutions, only insolvable problems.

_ If _Metatron wins the vote, Castiel will put Dean in danger if he tries to seek him out after fleeing the castle.

_ If _Castiel wins the vote, Dean will not want to be with him once he’s crowned.

_ If _ nobody wins, Paradiso will descend into civil war and Dean will stay as far away as he can. Also, Castiel will probably be dead by the time it’s all over.

Samandriel coughs, drawing him out of his gloomy thoughts. “It’s going to be alright, sire. You have enough votes, right?”

Castiel just shrugs.

* * *

Castiel falls back against his seat, completely winded by shock and relief. 

Metatron howls as Anna’s guards lead him away. Hannah’s men leave to hunt down Gadreel and the strongest of Metatron’s followers. Balthazar sends his manservant to the kitchens to give word to prepare for a victory celebration.

“Well, that went much better than I thought it would,” Anna says in the ensuing silence.

“Holy fuck, I’ll toast to that,” Balthazar chimes in as he raises a flask he procured from his robes. He offers a sip to Uriel, who merely glowers at him.

“Right, yes,” Castiel says, flustered, as he rises to his feet again. All heads swivel around to stare at him. He coughs as he mentally scrambles to get his bearings. Plans. He has lots of plans for the kingdom to ensure future success. He clears his throat and begins to speak.

By the time he finishes, voice hoarse and legs weak from standing so long without pause, Samandriel has a glass of water ready. The minority of nobles who voted against him seem slightly mollified by his statements – not that they seemed too concerned to begin with. After all, not one noble promised to fight on Metatron’s behalf as the vote swayed in Castiel’s favor.

Castiel has an inkling most of them cast their votes because they resisted change, not for any particular affection for the deposed King.

“But what about Terra?”

Hannah turns to Billie, confused. “What about it?” 

“Prince Castiel is betrothed to the Terran Prince,” Billie explains. “Their wedding is supposed to take place in a week and a half. Presumably, that’s the reason we’re all here.”

“... So?” Balthazar asks, eyebrows raised. “Now we’re here to crown Cassie.”

“The Terrans won’t like that.” Billie leans forward, elbows on the table as she turns to face Castiel fully. “A regime change is always a time of weakness, as everyone knows. Can you afford to offend Terra not one week on the throne?”

Castiel’s jaw clenches. “I have not had any interaction with King John of Terra since my uncle forbade it. How invested is he in this union?”

“I’d say pretty invested,” Tyrus says. His lands share the longest border with Terra. Across the table, Anna nods along slowly; her estate divides a valuable estuary with them. Tyrus continues, “You were supposed to get hitched a year ago. I’d have thought he would have pulled out long before now, but no, he’s still honoring it.”

“Gods damn it,” Balthazar mutters. “Tough luck, Cassie,” he says in a louder voice. “If it was up to me, I’d say you’re pretty well fucked.”

“Thank you, Balthazar.” Castiel barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes. “Anyone else have any other opinions?”

“Who will rule, then?” Muriel asks as she looks around. “Castiel will be King of Paradiso. Crown Prince Dean will take the throne after his father passes. Who will rule us? Who will rule them?”

Titters spring up around the table.

“We combine kingdoms,” Bartholomew announces. “Joint rule.”

“Queen Eve wouldn’t stand for that. Neither would King Crowley,” Uriel snaps back. “They would declare war in an instant.”

Castiel sighs.

“Maybe Prince Dean could abdicate?” Hannah proposes.

“A Crown Prince abdicating?” Bartholomew scoffs. “Has that _ ever _ happened in the history of the four kingdoms?”

“Just because it hasn’t happened doesn’t mean it _ can’t,” _ Hannah says, her voice full of offense.

Bartholomew barks a derisive laugh. “They’d sooner go to war.”

“Why couldn’t Prince Castiel marry Prince Samuel instead?” Tyrus looks around. “He’s the spare heir. And an alpha but with no expectations to take the throne.”

“Who says King John will go along with that?” Balthazar scoffs.

Castiel clears his throat, and most of the council quiets. “Clearly, this matter cannot and will not be settled here. We will wait for the Winchesters to arrive as scheduled and discuss with them.”

A ripple of nods fan through the council.

“Excellent,” he says in a final sort of voice as they more or less reach agreement. “The matter of my betrothal will be resumed once the Terrans have the opportunity to make their voices heard. If we have no marriage, then I assume the wedding preparations can be converted to coronation preparations instead?”

Gail, the castle steward, bows. “I suppose,” she says slowly. “The food and about half of the guest accommodations will be the same. But we were preparing for a much larger contingent from the Winchester side. Of course, their spots can always be opened up to the lesser gentry.”

“I’m happy to donate any extra food to the people if they do not get used,” Castiel says. He takes a step back and looks around. “If those are all the issues for the day, then we will adjourn and reconvene after I have reached a decision with the Winchesters.”

The council adjourns and Castiel slips out of the room. He deviates to one of the servants’ corridors, completely done with nobles for the day. On the way back to his chambers, more than one servant bobs a curtsy or bows and wishes him congratulations. Castiel tries to be gracious despite his bone-deep weariness.

Samandriel silently shadows him to his room.

For once, no guards stand sentry outside his bedroom doors. Castiel pushes them open, fully intent on collapsing on his bed and sleeping until dinner, but he stops short. 

Meg sits at his desk with her feet propped up and flicking idly through a volume of the Winchester Gospels. “Clarence, fancy seeing you here,” she drawls as she sets the book down on her chest.

“Yes, well, these are my rooms,” he says wryly as Samandriel makes a beeline for the roaring fireplace, only to pause and glare at Meg for doing his job for him.

“What?” she says to Samandriel, eyebrows raised. “I heard you’ve been a busy little beaver since I left. Put your feet up for once, Alfie. Relax.”

“It seems you’re doing enough relaxing for us,” Samandriel shoots back as he knocks her feet to the floor. 

“I hear you won the big showdown,” Meg says, her lips curling up into a small smile. “Marv is out and King Cas is in!”

“I haven’t been coronated yet.”

“You’re such a party pooper. But Metatron is definitely gone?”

Castiel shrugs. “He’s in the dungeon now.”

Meg cackles. “I need to see that for myself.” She glances over at Samandriel. “You got to watch, right? Please, Castiel, tell me Alfie at least got in on the show.”

“He actually cried,” Samandriel says gleefully.

Meg grins.

“Did you find Dean?” Castiel asks eagerly as he turns his back to shrug out of his ceremonial robe of the council.

Meg’s silence hangs heavy in the room. 

The hairs on the back of Castiel’s neck stand up with foreboding. “You didn’t find him?” he asks, genuinely surprised as he faces back around. The prospect of Meg failing hadn’t actually occurred to him. She’s never done so before.

Slowly, Meg shakes her head.

“Did you find Charlie?”

“No,” Meg says. “I went to Walker, like you said. She’d been missing for ten days by the time I came calling.”

Castiel’s shoulders slump. “So you have no news about Dean?”

“I – ah, didn’t say that,” Meg says carefully as Castiel freezes. “Look, your Majesty, are you sure you want to know? You just had a big win. I’d savor it just a little bit longer.”

Castiel inhales a deep, fortifying breath. “I need to know, Meg.”

She rubs a hand down her face. “Fuck me,” she mutters under her breath. Her gaze darts around the room, like she’s trying to determine if the words will hurt less if she makes direct eye contact. To his feet, she reports with obvious reluctance, “I asked around Walker. Rumor is, Dean and his crew are missing too. They never hit up Montcrieff at all, even though that was the last place they were seen.”

“Missing?” Castiel echoes. “Maybe something went wrong – and they’re lying low.”

“Missing and presumed dead, Castiel,” Meg says quietly. “A few people said King John sent out a notice they’d been captured.”

Castiel swallows. “And _ he killed them?” _

Meg shrugs, her lips pressed tightly together. “I have no idea. But they were robbing the nobility in his kingdom. He has the right.”

“But - but -” Castiel’s horrified stutters break off as his knees buckle beneath him. Samandriel is at his side in an instant, helping him to lean on one of his bedposts. He clutches onto it like a man lost at sea.

“I’m so sorry.” Meg pushes herself up from his desk. “That’s all anybody knows.”

“I’m supposed to marry his son,” Castiel says faintly.

“That might not happen, sire,” Samandriel reminds him.

Castiel bites his lip, as if that will stop the painful hitches in his breathing, or the prickling behind his eyes. “I can’t – I can’t meet with him.”

Samandriel strips one of Castiel’s many pillowcases and shoves it in Castiel’s hands. “You have a couple days until they get here.” 

“That’s not enough.” Castiel digs his fingers into the fabric before raising it to dab at his eyes, only to find they’re already streaming with tears. “Nothing will ever be enough.”

He doesn’t remember much after that.

* * *

He goes through the next few days in a haze of grief coupled bouts of manic productivity. He drafts a whole new tax program one night, but spends four hours the next day inconsolably weeping. He attends special interest meetings and holds himself together enough address the leatherworkers’ guild and the blacksmiths’ guild. But he has to excuse himself three-quarters of the way through his speech to the bakers’ guild.

They brought a wide array of cakes and to celebrate the occasion and one, lonesome pie.

Castiel churns through the Winchester Gospels in one afternoon. He stops as soon as they reach the birth of the crown prince. There are only so many times he can read Dean’s name in print before he completely loses his mind.

He arranges back-to-back meetings and lessons to brush up on his diplomacy and history. Luckily, he’s not short of things to do. Word gets out within the day about Castiel’s new status, and soon it seems everyone in the entire kingdom is clamoring at the castle doors or sending letters of congratulations. 

More than a few commoners had impromptu celebrations of their own, and Castiel is as gratified as he can be at the news, given his current state.

Meg sticks by his side like a persistent burr, irritating and goading him out of his misery as often as she can. She doesn’t leave him alone and coerces Samandriel to stay with him when she’s infrequently called away.

She sleeps in his room too. For all her prickly nature during the day, she possesses unending patience during the night as she wakes him, sometimes multiple times, from nightmares.

Meg eyes him critically the afternoon the Winchesters are due to arrive. 

“You look like shit.”

“Thank you, Meg, I feel like shit.”

Samandriel glares at her and adjusts the hem of Castiel’s new coat. “He’s doing his best.”

Castiel inhales a shuddering breath. He really is not – his best would involve setting aside all thoughts of Dean and giving King John more than the bare minimum of fanfare. Currently, all the castle has planned are a welcome feast (not that they haven’t had a feast practically every other day since Metatron for some reason or another) and routine gifts of Paradisian swords – a specialty of the kingdom. 

Vindictively, Castiel placed the Winchesters at the other end of the castle from his own bed chambers. Their three bedrooms – for King John, the Crown Prince, and Prince Samuel – had to be thoroughly dusted and rid of vermin, but Castiel couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping any closer to the killers of his friends.

If pressed, Castiel could always claim the rooms had a wonderful view of the castle grounds. His own, meanwhile, faced east and showed the rising sun with broad swaths of sky.

Samandriel steps back. “You’re ready, sire.” 

“Buck up, champ,” Meg says as she slaps him heartily on the back, no doubt ruining the perfect lines of his clothes Samandriel had spent the past five minutes tugging into place. “You’re gonna be the fucking King. You got this.”

Castiel presses his lips together. “I don’t got this.”

“What?” Meg places her hands on her hips. “’Course you do. Where’s the guy who survived in the woods for months with just his wits and the clothes on his back?”

Castiel swallows. “He died. Along with Dean.”

Meg throws Samandriel an exasperated look. “Why do you always have to be so dramatic?” she mutters under her breath. “I swear, if the king-thing doesn’t work out you could always go for the stage.”

“You’re being insensitive,” Samandriel hisses.

“Have you _ met _me?”

She nudges Samandriel out of the way and braces both her hands on Castiel’s shoulders as she looks up to meet his eyes. “You are going to ace this, you hear me?” she says. “You are going to get over this – not because you think you can – but because you have to. You have people to lead. You have a job to do. Go do it.” She steps away.

Castiel bobs his head in jerky nod and swallows. “I – thank you. Thank you both.”

“It is always a pleasure to serve you, my lord.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetcheeks.”

Castiel steels himself as he leaves his room with long, even strides. Meg and Samandriel follow, squabbling under their breaths in his wake. They stand by his side as he waits by the entrance. Their guard sent word King John entered Paradiso’s borders earlier that day.

Too soon and not soon enough, Castiel catches the first sounds of horses’ hooves and wheels of a carriage on flagstone. King John doesn’t wait for a footman to open the door before striding out himself, alone. He glances around for a moment, his eyes lingering on nine of the ten knights stationed around the courtyard. 

“Prince Castiel,” he calls loudly as he strides to where Castiel stands with his retenue. “We finally meet.”

“A pleasure,” Castiel lies through his teeth, hesitating the barest fraction of a second before taking the hand offered.

Castiel half-expects King John’s hand to be ice cold or burning hot. It is, after all, the hand that killed Dean. But it’s as normal as his own.

He lets it go quickly. “How was your journey?”

“Eventful,” King John sighs. “But nothing I can’t handle.”

“Where are your sons?” he asks as he peers around King John’s shoulder. Nobody else emerges from the carriage.

King John rolls his eyes. “Dean hates riding if it’s not on his own damn horse, forget getting him in a carriage. With him out in the open like that… he needed extra security to make sure everything went to plan. Which it of course didn’t. They’ll be here in an hour or two probably.”

Castiel nods once to show he understood. “We have gifts for you, of course, and a feast later. Should we do the exchange now?”

“Let’s hold off until the boys get here.” King John waves to his attendant, laden with a couple saddle bags and a wrapped parcel. “There’s plenty to discuss without them butting in. I hear congratulations are in order?”

Castiel cracks a brittle smile. “I believe that’s one of the items to discuss. Come.” He gestures to the castle. “Let me show you to your rooms.”

He meets Meg’s curious eye as they sweep past, and she gives him an encouraging nod before curtsying to the King like the rest of the assembled servants.

“Never been in this area of the castle before,” King John says as he wanders around his prepared room. He pulls aside the curtain to peer out the window and drums his fingers along the surface of the writing desk, already laden with a new quill and a few sheets of blank parchment just in case. 

“The castle is more full than it has been in my memory,” Castiel acknowledges from the doorway. “I don’t think we will have a single spare bedroom by the weeks’ end.”

“I remember how it was for my wedding,” King John says quietly. “We had people sleeping on the parapet. Luckily, it was summer.”

Castiel clears his throat. “If this is satisfactory, we can begin discussions in our council room. I have ordered refreshments.”

Over the course of the next hour, King John negotiates shrewdly and stubbornly. They don’t touch upon Castiel’s impending kingship, but instead hammer out new trade agreements and a territory dispute Tyrus unsuccessfully tried to settle with his Terran neighbor, a Duchess Sarah Blake.

King John doesn’t stick entirely to business matters, and Castiel hears plenty about the Terran princes; how they used to drive the castle steward, Rufus, to his wits’ end and how they would ditch their lessons to go riding if the weather permitted – aided and abetted by the royal stablemaster, Bobby.

Castiel tries to remain stoic and approach everything logically. Even with his emotions walled up tight, he still can’t help the way his heart pangs painfully every time he hears the name “Dean.” It doesn’t help that evidently Prince Samuel goes by "Sam" to his family. He refrains from drinking a drop of the wine provided, but fiddles endlessly with his cup to keep himself from balling his hands into fists.

Samandriel interrupts them before they can reach a conclusion to the dispute, however. “Pardon, your Majesties,” he says, dipping his head in a slight bow to both of them. “But Prince Dean and Prince Samuel have arrived.”

King John and Castiel both stand.

“No need to roll out the welcome wagon,” King John says, holding a hand out to keep Castiel from making a bee-line to the door. “I’d like to have a word with my sons first, if you don’t mind. Give us twenty minutes, tops. Then we can get all the pomp and circumstance out of the way.”

Castiel, in no hurry to meet the princes, has no objections. “Samandriel, will you show the Winchesters to their rooms?”

“Yes, sire.”

Meg slips in as Samandriel and King John leave.

“How’re you holding up?” she asks for probably the third time that day.

“I’m fine.”

“How’d your discussion with the King go?”

“Fine.”

Meg snorts. “Glad we had this talk.” She hops up to sit on the table instead of one of many empty seats. This high, she’s almost at eye-level with him. 

Castiel sighs. “I don’t know how long I can do this for.”

“It’s a bit late to back out now,” Meg says wryly. “The throne is supposed to be a lifelong gig.”

“The ruling I can do,” Castiel throws himself in a nearby chair. “The personal side, not so much. Why did no one prepare me for this?”

“You could always run away again, sire.”

“Because that worked out so well the first time.”

“I’d say it did,” Meg says as she nudges his leg with her foot. “Do you regret it?”

“No. But it just makes this… so much harder.”

“It’s okay to mourn your past life,” Meg says quietly. “You don’t have to forget it happened or wish it didn’t, but you do have to accept it’s gone and never coming back.”

“How?”

“Beats me.” Meg shrugs. “If I knew, I’d be a much better person.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why I keep you around sometimes.”

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Clarence.”

Castiel winces. “Please don’t call me that.”

Meg’s joking expression softens. “Yeah, okay,” she says quietly.

They stay in the council room for a little while longer, talking about nothing in particular, until Meg abruptly chivvies Castiel out, saying he can’t avoid his future ball and chain forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left, so stop back this Thursday!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel pushes the door open and stops dead, his heart in his throat.
> 
> “Dean?”
> 
> Castiel almost doesn't recognize him without the beard obscuring half his face, or Sam, with shorter hair. There’s no mistaking those vibrant green eyes, though, even from across the room. Or Sam’s height.
> 
> “...Clarence?”

Meg gets called away on their walk to the Princes’ rooms because Castiel can’t catch a break. He walks down the last hall with lead feet, each step heavier than the last.

Voices carry from from beyond the door closest to King John’s. 

“This is hands-down the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

_ “Shut up.” _

Castiel’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Look, I thought you had a plan! But you can’t just go roaming the countryside of a _ foreign kingdom _with no clue where to start! If Bill hadn’t caught you – if the Paradisians found you first – what would’ve happened then?”

“I couldn’t just sit around and _ do nothing.” _

The past few days have taken their toll on Castiel. The high of Metatron’s defeat. The low of Dean’s death. The whirlwind of everything else. He can forgive his mind for lapses as the shock wears off.

“I wasn’t suggesting that. I was _ suggesting _not to go off half-cocked like you did this morning!”

Castiel’s father heard voices after too many glasses of wine and ale. Maybe the same affliction is finally manifesting in Castiel.

“Well, what would you have done, huh?” the voice continues heatedly, “Since you’re such a smartass, tell me. Tell me how you’d’ve gotten him back.”

“You don’t even know for sure he’s here.”

Castiel pauses before the door, his hand raised to knock.

“He has to be somewhere. Here’s as good a place as any to start, since he’s not in Terra anymore.”

“So to get access to Paradiso, _ you marry the King?” _

“Hey, I know it’s not a perfect plan,” the voice says defensively. “I just don’t know what time of time crunch I’m working with here.” There’s the unmistakable sound of a fist pounding a hard surface. “That uncle of his sounded like bad news. And if his Alpha dragged Clarence back... I’ve heard of omegas getting killed for a lot less.”

Castiel pushes the door open and stops dead, his heart in his throat.

“Dean?”

Castiel almost doesn't recognize him without the beard obscuring half his face, or Sam, with shorter hair. There’s no mistaking those vibrant green eyes, though, even from across the room. Or Sam’s height.

_ “Clarence?” _

Legs weak, Castiel croaks, “Dean? You’re alive?”

“You’re here?”

Castiel doesn’t have an answer for that. He asks instead, “What are you doing here?”

“What are _ you?” _

“Dean,” Sam hisses, “look at him.”

“Ain’t gonna stop anytime soon,” Dean murmurs as he strides forward to wrap his arms around Castiel’s stiff shoulders. 

Castiel inhales deeply, and he has never smelled anything so wonderful. He shivers as Dean scents him in return, burying his nose in the crook of Castiel’s neck and breathing in.

Sam chokes. “Do those look like the clothes of a regular noble?” 

Dean steps back, mouth opening in question, but he snaps it shut as the door behind Castiel opens again.

King John’s nostrils flare as takes in the no-longer neutral scent of the room. “Well, I see we’re all getting to know each other,” he says wryly with a pointed glare in Dean’s direction. “You didn’t have to stake your claim yet, son. Castiel’s not going anywhere.”

Dean’s head whips around to stare. “Castiel?”

“You jumped him without even learning his name?” King John frowns. “I thought I raised you with better manners.”

Castiel turns to Dean. “I,” he starts before coughing around the lump in his throat, “I didn’t ask his either, in complete fairness.”

“Since apparently introductions are in order,” King John says, disapproval clear in his tone, “Prince Castiel, these are my oft wayward sons. Crown Prince Dean and Prince Sam – Samuel,” he corrects, not that Castiel needs it.

"It's a pleasure," Castiel says as he formally holds out his hand for Dean to shake, as if they are really two royals meeting for the first time.

After a brief hesitation, Dean takes his hand. “Yeah, you too,” he says in a soft voice.

Castiel holds on for a few more seconds than is generally acceptable, gloriously reveling in the familiar sword calluses on Dean’s palm. After a pointed cough from Sam, he moves to take his hand too, blushing faintly. “I welcome you both to Paradiso. I hope you both enjoy your stay.”

Sam snorts. “One of us will, _ way _more than the other.”

King John shoots him a disapproving look, eyes narrowed. “I trust you boys to behave yourselves while we’re here.”

“We’ll be on our best behavior,” Dean swears as he crosses his finger across his heart. Next to him, Sam offers Castiel a barely-disguised grin. 

“It’s like you were raised in a barn,” King John mutters.

Castiel bites his lip. “I trust your accommodations are suitable?”

“Yeah, this is way better than our last place,” Dean says cheerfully.

_ “Dean,” _ King John growls.

Dean grimaces but shuts his mouth.

Castiel’s lips press together with his efforts not to smile in return. The castle is, by all measures, better than their slipshod assembly of tents in the middle of the woods. 

“As I was telling you before,” King John begins with a targeted glare, warning Dean not to interrupt, “The terms stipulating your betrothal,” he nods in Castiel’s direction, “have changed. But it is in both our kingdoms’ best interest to strengthen our written alliance in blood. So I propose we proceed–”

Dean cuts in, “Can I talk to,” he hesitates almost imperceptibly, “_Castiel _for a moment?”

King John’s jaw clenches. “That would be highly improper.”

Dean shoots Castiel a pleading look. Technically, King John is right. An unmated alpha and an unmated omega should never be alone in a room, betrothed or not. 

“Yes, I would like to speak to Dean alone,” Castiel says. “I know it’s a bit… unorthodox. But I would like to have a conversation with my Alpha before we wed.”

King John’s eyes gleam. “Your Alpha?” he repeats.

Castiel chin lifts. “That is Dean, is it not?”

“Yes, he is,” King John mutters. He jerks his head towards the door. “Sam and me will be right outside, so no funny business.”

“No of course not,” Castiel says with a solemn nod.

“Dean?”

“‘Course Dad,” Dean rolls his eyes. “You have my word.”

Sam pats Dean once on the shoulder before he follows his father out of the room. They leave the door ajar as they exit.

Dean doesn’t immediately start talking like Castiel expected him to. Eyes wide, they rake up and down Castiel’s face. “So you’re really the Omega Prince of Paradiso."

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “And you’re really the Crown Prince of Terra,” he counters. “If you insist on pointing fingers, I don’t think you have much of a leg to stand on.”

Dean raises his hands in the air in a gesture of no ill-will. “Wasn’t pointing fingers. Just making an observation.”

Castiel fidgets where he stands. The Dean he knew would only stop talking if his mouth was wired shut. But this Dean is _looks _at him, decidedly silent.

Maybe Castiel spoke out of turn. Did Dean even want to be his alpha? He’d clearly meant to find Castiel, but Dean could have wanted that for a multitude of reasons. Perhaps he needed to ensure Castiel’s safety. Dean did tend to feel responsible for those around him.

Was that even still true? Did he even know Dean at all? If anyone asked Castiel yesterday, he would have said Dean was an outlaw whose sole mission in life was wreaking havoc on the corrupt nobility of Terra. But how could that be true if was also the heir to the throne?

Was it all some elaborate joke? A depraved past time to escape his _ true _ responsibilities as crown prince? 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Castiel says eventually. 

Dean rubs the back of his hand along his chin. “I don’t know either,” he admits. “I guess you really were running away from an arranged marriage, huh?” 

“I only lied to you when I had to,” Castiel says defensively, his tone sharp.

“Hey,” Dean protests, his hands in the air, “I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I get it. I think.”

“Then that makes one of us,” Castiel says bitterly.

Dean sighs. “I guess you have a few questions.”

“More than that.”

“Shoot.”

Castiel swallows. Start small. “Who else knew?”

“Sam, obviously,” Dean says at once. “Uh, Jo – her mom is the head of the kitchens back home. And Benny, he was my personal guard. We all grew up together, I guess.” He licks his lips. “Eileen, probably. Sam wouldn’t have started anything with her if she didn’t know.”

Castiel’s face reddens. He tries to rein in his scent, but, judging by Dean’s equally pink cheeks, he smells Castiel’s embarrassed dejection anyway. Maybe Dean would have told him too if they had more time together. 

But then again, maybe the Crown Prince has other priorities. 

“Charlie,” Dean adds. “She knows everything.”

“Is she alright?” Castiel asks before he can stop himself.

“Alright?” Dean echoes, confused.

Castiel’s mouth snaps shut.

"Is there a reason she shouldn't be?" Dean asks after a beat. 

Castiel's shoulders slump. "I asked Meg to find you last week. Not the Prince, of course. I told her to go to Charlie, since she might know where your next location was, if you had moved on from Montcrieff. Meg said Charlie was missing."

Dean's eyes narrow with suspicion. "There's more to it. Tell me."

Castiel exhales a slow breath. "Meg also said you were dead too.” He gestures unnecessarily to the castle around them. “I was busy here, or I would have gone myself."

Dean's expression goes blank. "You would have, huh?" 

Castiel nods. "Anna came to me with an idea to take the throne my first night back here. It all snowballed after that." He chuckles humorlessly at his own foolishness. "I used to think if I succeeded, I would use my first diplomatic visit to Terra to find you."

"And what would you have done when you found me?" Dean asks cautiously.

"I would have said goodbye," Castiel says simply. The Dean he knew would have never had gone back with him to Paradiso, and Castiel could never leave his people again.

Dean's face crumples.

A small, vindictive part of Castiel doesn't regret Dean's hurt feelings.

Before Dean can respond, the door opens. “That’s been long enough,” King John says gruffly.

“Yeah, I guess it has.” Dean turns away.

“Prince Castiel, should we continue our talks?” King John asks. “Now that my sons have arrived, we can get down to the real reason we’re here.”

Castiel casts a sidelong look at Dean’s back before stepping closer to the door. “If you all need a moment to properly refresh from their travels, I will meet you in the great hall for your formal reception. I can have a servant show you the way.”

King John waves off his suggestion. “I remember how to get there.”

“Even so,” Castiel says carefully, “I can’t have foreign rulers running around my castle. I’m sure you understand. My personal manservant, Samandriel, will be along to escort you.”

King John shrugs. “If you insist.”

Castiel leaves without looking back.

* * *

Castiel presents King John, Dean, and Sam with the ceremonial swords alongside a speech welcoming such prestigious guests. Dean keeps his gaze downcast for the entire ordeal, refusing to meet Castiel’s eye. Sam stands as far from his father as the dais provides and shoots Dean and Castiel probing looks.

King John accepts the gifts with appropriate thanks and only makes one quick mention of the impending union.

Some of the more important nobles take the floor and offer long-winded words of approval for Castiel’s future rule. 

Normally, Castiel would have appreciated the show of support. Today, he can’t wait to leave the Winchester’s presence. He only half-concentrates on whatever point Hannah is making, and he has to catch himself every time his eyes drift, unwillingly, to Dean’s face, half-hidden behind his father.

The schedule doesn’t allow for another break, so they segue straight into the welcome feast.

The castle cooks, probably under the watchful eye of Gail, outdo themselves. Sumptuous displays of roast pheasant and capons line the table. Fresh vegetables, glittering with oil and herbs, sit atop massive bowls of wild rice. Servants assemble behind the table, their wineskins poised to top off anyone’s glass.

At least, King John and Dean are seated at the opposite end from Castiel. Sam, through some last-minute placement wizardry, places himself at Castiel’s right-hand at the other head of the table.

“You know,” Sam says casually as he ladles what seems like half the bowl of vegetables onto his plate, “I had no idea I would miss real food this badly.” His hand hovers above the cooked fowl, and carefully selects a single leg for himself.

Castiel blinks, a little taken aback at Sam’s easygoing manner. “I - I guess I didn’t either.”

Sam chuckles. “Dean was way worse than me, of course. But that’s because he thinks with his stomach half the time.”

Castiel motions for Samandriel to hurry forward with more wine.

“When, um, did you reunite with your father?” Castiel asks after too long of a pause.

“About four days after you went missing.” He shoves a spoonful of rice into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Dean just about lost it when he couldn’t immediately find you.”

Castiel stares; Sam speaks like they are just two friends catching up over a meal. There is no sign of the baggage of kept secrets and lies between them. 

Sam takes a quick sip of wine. “We have your sword, by the way. We found it in the woods. I think Dean sleeps with it beneath his pillow, but don’t tell him I said that.” 

Castiel’s mouth falls open. He spears a piece of squash and shoves it in so he doesn’t gape at Sam like an idiot.

“Anyway, Dean spent two days going door-to-door in Moncrieff, practically. When you didn’t turn up, he went back to Dad. He still hates him,” Sam adds in an undertone, “and Dad doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw him, but this was the only way Dean could think of to get you back.”

Castiel takes another long pull of his drink.

“So here we are. You can say ‘hi’ to Jo if you want,” Sam says with a tight smile, the first signs of the strain he’s been under. “She’s in our retenue… somewhere. Benny too. He’s right there.” Sam points with his fork at the hulking shadow behind Dean and King John. “Dad fired Dean’s old manservant while we were gone, so Benny’s filling in.”

Benny waves.

Castiel chokes on air. “I don’t…” he drifts, unsure of where to begin among his many doubts and questions. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Sam shrugs. “I thought you should know.” His eyes flick to Castiel’s face, more than a little amused. “Normally I wouldn’t butt my nose in, but since Dean’s _ still _ such crap at talking about his feelings _ and _I’ve gotten the sense you’re not much better…” He lifts his shoulders in a massive shrug.

His head a riot of conflicting thoughts, Castiel can barely do more than nod his pathetic agreement.

Sam glancing around them, eyes wide. “Man, I still can’t believe you’re the gods damned Prince.”

“I wasn’t. When I was with you and Dean.”

Sam snorts. “It’s just funny Dean ended up falling for a noble. The jackass always swore he’d rather slit his own throat than get tied up in more blueblood bullshit.”

“That was real?” Castiel blurts.

“What was real?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised. “Dean’s feelings for you?” He sets down his fork, his expression incredulous. “I just told you all the crap we went through to get here. He hates this, Castiel.” He gestures around the crowded table. “But he went back ‘cause there was the _ slightest _chance it would lead to you.” 

Castiel licks his lips, tasting only wine. He stares down the gamut of guests at Dean, who briefly meets his gaze before dropping his eyes back to his nearly-empty plate.

Sam rolls his eyes. “He would have started so much shit if you weren’t… you. Whatever, you get it. Just imagine, if he came here under the pretense of fulfilling the betrothal and ditched the _ future king of Paradiso _ for some random omega.”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “I – ah – that doesn’t sound too logical.”

“Like I said,” Sam says with a pointed look, “Dean lost it. I told him it was stupid, but he wouldn’t listen. Still, I couldn’t let him walk off that cliff alone.”

“That was a stupid plan,” Castiel agrees quietly. He studies Sam for a moment as he takes a sip of his abandoned goblet. “How are you doing?”

“Me?” Sam asks surprised. “I’m fine, I guess.”

“Really?” Castiel’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Dean gave me the impression you also wanted no part of your old life.”

“I just can’t work with Dad,” Sam says in a low voice, eyes darting around the table for any eavesdroppers. But everyone around them seems caught up in their own conversations. “The royalty business, I guess that’s fine. But Dad just doesn’t _ care _anymore. He arranged the betrothal with Metatron so Dean could take over, and he could officially fuck off.”

“But Dean doesn’t want to rule.”

Sam wrinkles his nose. “Not really. He likes one-on-one stuff – like at the camp. That was his ideal set up. An elite team for him to look after. Politics, though, that’s not him at all.”

Castiel nods in understanding. “But you don’t mind?”

Sam shrugs. “Not really. I like problem-solving and learning new stuff, and the nobles always kept us on our toes. Even Dean could admit that.”

Castiel glances around before asking furtively, “Can you tell Dean to return my sword after the feast?”

Sam grins. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“I’ll send Meg to show him the way to my chambers.”

Sam snorts. “I bet he’ll love that.”

“Why?”

“He’s, uh, not Meg’s biggest fan,” Sam says sheepishly. “Never got over when he thought you two were together.”

“She’s my friend.”

“Yeah, that was obvious to anyone who didn’t have his head up his ass.”

“And your – I mean, are you still in touch with Eileen?” Castiel asks. He hasn’t seen her around.

Sam’s expression flickers. “Yeah, a little,” he admits. “She knew about me and Dean, but didn’t really _ know, _ you know? When push came to shove, I had to follow Dean instead of stay with her. We might try to work it out. I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Sam shrugs, his face downcast. “I’m gonna ask her to talk to Jo – she’s a shoe-in if it’s up to Dean to choose the next Captain of the Royal Guard. Maybe Eileen could get a spot – she's a good fighter.”

“And if it wasn’t up to Dean?” Castiel asks, feeling reckless. “What if it was up to you?”

“Me?” Sam asks, completely taken aback. “I guess I’d choose Jo too. Of course. But Castiel–” He breaks off, unsure.

“Just something to think about, Sam,” Castiel says hurriedly. “Please make sure Dean stops by, will you?”

Sam takes a large gulp of wine, his expression thoughtful. “You got it.”

* * *

The door opens, and Meg’s voice rings out, “Announcing his royal presence, Crown Prince Dean Winchester of Ter–”

“Can it, Meg.”

Castiel looks up from his reading – not that he had absorbed a single word since she had left to fetch Dean from his rooms.

Dean hovers in the doorway. "Hey."

"Hello, Dean."

Into the ensuing silence, Meg says pointedly, _ "Well, _ I can see where I'm not wanted.”

Castiel waves her off without looking. “You’re excused.”

“Thanks, _ your Highness.” _ Only Meg makes the honorific sound like an insult.

Dean watches her go with a slight frown. He shuts the door behind her but hesitates to take a step closer. “Quite the castle you got here,” he says instead, looking around.

“I told you I didn’t grow up under a rock,” Castiel says as he makes his way over to Dean. “I believe you have something of mine?”

Dean’s face falls as he pulls out Castiel’s sword, sheathed at his side. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Castiel reaches out to take it, allowing his fingers to brush against Dean’s before he draws away. Castiel turns around to set his sword on his desk. “Did you enjoy dinner?”

“What?” Dean asks, taken aback. “What do you–” He breaks off with an angry exhale. He closes his eyes briefly, like it’s too much to even look at Castiel. “Yes, it was delicious. My fucking compliments to the cooks.”

Castiel surveys him for a moment, lingering on the smooth planes of his cheeks, the sharp line of his jaw. Almost a new face, but the forest green eyes are still the same.

“While we were eating, Sam told me what you’ve been up to since we last saw each other.”

A vein in Dean’s temple jumps. “He did, did he? Sammy’s such a fucking blabbermouth. Look, it’s fine. I got here. I found you. We’re square.”

“Are we?” Castiel’s eyebrows raise in disbelief.

Dean throws his hands in the air. “What do you want from me? I’m working on Dad, okay? I’ll owe him for a hundred years, but I’ll get us out of the betrothal. There won’t be a wedding. You can get on with your life, rule your kingdom like you were supposed to.”

“Is that really what you think I want?”

“I lied to you,” Dean says bitterly. “I pretended to be a different person. And, yeah, you weren’t upfront about who you were either, but it’s not like you had a choice. You left your home to get away from marrying_ me. _ It doesn’t take a genius like Sam to put it all together.”

Castiel cocks his head as he regards Dean carefully. “I don’t think you pretended to be a different person.”

His face darkens with rueful hatred. “Didn’t I?”

“No.” Castiel takes a deep breath and steps a little closer, a little more into Dean’s space. “You are still the same loyal, brave man I last saw in Terra.”

Dean stares stonily back at him. “You don’t know that.”

“Tell me where I have it wrong, then. You place your brother above all else. You care deeply for your people.” Castiel musters a small, wry smile. “You still hate the nobility and think they’re a waste of your time. You came all the way here to find a missing member of your gang of outlaws, risking life and livelihood. If that doesn’t convince me, nothing will.”

Dean ducks his head. “‘Course I had to find you. It’s _ you.” _

Castiel throws him a look. “And if it was Benny - or Kevin, or Krissy - you wouldn’t have done the same?”

Dean falters. “I mean, yeah, but I probably would have come up with a better plan.”

Castiel lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I'm not sure about that. This plan seems to be working out well.”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath, hope glimmering in his eyes for the first time since he stepped into Castiel’s bedroom. “Is it?”

“I don’t know how it’s escaped your notice,” Castiel says quietly, “But people rarely force me into situations I don’t want to be in. I also don’t say things I don’t mean. I told your father I wanted a moment alone with my Alpha. I still do - I want _ all _of them.”

_ “Clarence,” _Dean breathes. He stumbles forward, grabbing Castiel’s hand in his.

Castiel shakes his head, smiling slightly. “My name is Castiel.”

“Gods, I’ll call you whatever the fuck you want,” Dean promises fervently.

Castiel reaches up to cup the side of Dean’s face. “Dean,” he murmurs as his fingers trace the line of his jaw, for once not obscured by a rough beard. He peers closer, and, yes, Dean does have more freckles than Castiel initially suspected.

“You can touch more than my face, man,” Dean says, amused.

“Weren’t you the one who tried to teach me patience?” Castiel asks as he leans in to scent Dean again.

Dean groans as he grabs Castiel roughly by the hips and presses their bodies together. “Boy, do I regret that now.”

_ “Dean,” _ Castiel moans as Dean grinds his rapidly filling cock against Castiel.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Dean drawls as he slowly crowds Castiel back up against one of the posters of his bed. “You smell so good.”

“So do you.” Castiel breaks away to wrest Dean’s shirt off him. He pauses for a moment, marvelling at Dean’s revealed torso. All the wounds from his fight with Gordon have faded. A new, vivid white scar rests above his heart.

Castiel’s finger brushes lightly over the spot. Dean shivers. “Does it hurt?”

“No. Can’t feel much in that area, actually."

Castiel bites his lip. 

"Hey, it's fine," Dean soothes as he covers Castiel's hand with his own. "I'm fine," he amends. 

Castiel inhales a shuddering breath. "You could have died."

"I didn't," Dean says softly. "Because you saved me."

Castiel nods, unable to tear his gaze away from Dean's scarred skin. Many, many white lines crisscross their way across his chest, marking Dean as a fighter, a warrior. 

"Hey," Dean says as he lifts Castiel's chin the scent few inches so he can catch his eye properly. "Why don't we lie down? It's been a hell of a day."

Castiel releases a weary laugh. "It has, hasn't it?" he says as he takes a seat. The bed dips as Dean sits down too. "I thought I was going crazy when I saw you in my castle. You and Sam."

"I thought… I don't know what the hell I thought," Dean says with laugh. "I was just so fucking relieved to finally find you."

"As was I."

"Are you tired?"

"Yes? A little."

Dean frowns. "...How tired?"

"I want to have sex with you tonight, if that is what you are really asking," Castiel says with a small grin. 

Dean dissolves into relieved laughter. "Never change, man. I love how you talk."

Castiel shrugs. "I know what I want, Dean, and I want you. There's little point arguing otherwise."

Dean tugs Castiel further on the bed and wrests his shirt off him. They each toe off their shoes and wriggle out of their pants, exchanging amused but flirty looks as more and more skin is revealed. 

Both nude, Dean crowds Castiel against the headboard, kissing him gently. Castiel melts under his touch and his body. 

"How's this?" Dean murmurs into Castiel's ear. 

To answer, Castiel raises his splayed legs and hooks his ankles around Dean's lower back, drawing their hips firmly together. 

Dean groans. "Fuck, Clarence. That feels so good."

Castiel frowns, indignation flaring despite the sex cloud muddying his thoughts. He takes both their cocks in hand. _ "That's not my name," _he says, accompanying each word with a hard twist of his fist.

Dean writhes above him, his body jerking each time Castiel's fingers glide firmly over the sensitive head of his cock, slick with precome. 

"Castiel," Dean pants. _"Castiel." _

Castiel hums in agreement, slowing the pace of his hand to a delicious drag up and down their shafts. With each pump of his wrist, he can feel more beads of slick gather at his entrance. 

Dean chokes out his real name one more time, and Castiel has had enough.

“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean’s eyes snap to his. “I want you inside me.”

“Fuck yes,” Dean breathes as he scrambles up. “How do you want to do this?”

“I - can I present?” Castiel asks, almost shy. “I want to do this right.”

Dean gapes. “Yeah, you can. I - I’d like that.”

Castiel shimmies out from beneath Dean and makes to move to the end of the bed, but Dean stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll probably want to face that way,” he says as he jerks his thumb towards the headboard. “If you get tired, you can hold on to keep you up.”

“Oh, yes,” Castiel says. He turns his head and presses a quick, closed-mouthed kiss to the back of Dean’s hand. “That would be wise.”

“Heh, yeah. _ Wise,” _ Dean echoes with a snort as he backs up to give Castiel space.

Castiel crawls on his hands and knees into place and waits, feeling a little foolish as the seconds tick on and Dean hands aren’t back on him. He twists around, half-dreading to read whatever second-thoughts have made their way onto Dean’s face. But he only sees Dean with a slack-jawed expression - he looks positively infatuated.

Castiel flushes. “You can start at any time.”

Dean blinks. “Yes, right.” He gives his head a little shake. “It’s just you look so fucking good like that.”

“Really?”

Dean leans in, tilting his hips so he can grind his hard cock right up against Castiel’s ass. “Really,” Dean promises. “I, uh, forgot this can be a thing. That we’ll do this again. It’ll take some getting used to.”

Castiel faces back forward again, the delightful heat of anticipation spreading through him as two of Dean’s fingers circle his rim. “We can have as much sex as you need to be fully convin - _ oh!” _

Dean’s other hand not buried inside Castiel grip him firmly by the waist. “How’s that? Too much?”

“No,” Castiel gasps as Dean’s probing fingers change angle inside him, searching. “That feels good.” He spasms as Dean finds his mark, lightening racing up and down his veins as the tension starts to build.

Dean zeroes in on the spot, rubbing ceaselessly as he drapes himself over Castiel’s back. “Let me know when you’re gonna come, Castiel,” he murmurs in his ear.

Castiel moans. “Soon.”

Dean presses a kiss to the back of Castiel’s neck, inhaling deeply as he tilts his head to scent the Omega underneath him. He straightens and withdraws his fingers, ignoring Castiel’s mournful whine. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Castiel growls. He tenses momentarily as the head of Dean’s cock brushes against his entrance, bigger and blunter than Dean’s fingers, and reminds himself to relax.

“Exhale, Cas,” Dean murmurs. As Castiel breathes out, Dean pushes forward. “Gods,” he murmurs as he fully seats himself inside Castiel. 

Castiel clenches around him involuntarily, and Dean groans from deep in his throat. “Gonna kill me, man,” he murmurs as he withdraws.

“I assure you that’s not my intention,” Castiel says as he pushes back ever so slightly.

Dean’s hands on his hips briefly squeeze tighter before he pushes forward. He moves slowly, so slowly, and Castiel feels every tiny fraction of an inch enter him again, including the slightly raised area of Dean's knot.

"Is this okay?" Dean asks breathlessly.

"What?"

"Going slow," Dean says as his hands rove over the round globes of Castiel's ass. "I want this to last."

"Yes," Castiel says simply. He wiggles a little, adjusting where Dean's cock hits inside him, and Dean lets out a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan.

Dean bows forward. He presses reverential kisses all along Castiel's shoulders where he can reach and upper back. Castiel shivers in response, unable to see exactly where Dean's mouth will land next from this position. With the change in angle, Dean's cock just barely reaches that spot that makes him go weak at the knees. 

And before long, the tension inside him hits the breaking point. He comes with a soundless gasp as Dean knots him.

* * *

“So… Castiel, huh?”

Castiel slits his eyes open, wincing a little at the bright daylight flooding in from the window. He groans, rolling over and half on top of Dean with one arm slung over his chest. “That is my name.”

“Where’d you get Clarence from anyway?”

“Meg has called me that since she started working here. I have no idea why. She tends to rename everyone eventually.”

Dean hugs him closer. His heart beats a steady rhythm in Castiel’s ear as his chest rises with each breath. They will probably have to get up soon. Samandriel will be here any minute, judging from the position of the sun. 

Dean’s arm tightens around Castiel. “You really want this?” he asks, his voice low. 

Castiel raises his head, brow furrowing as he studies Dean’s (impossibly) apprehensive face. “I do. I want you – now and forever.”

Dean reddens. “You… you can’t just say stuff like that, man.”

“Why not?” 

Dean shakes his head, but that’s hardly a satisfactory answer.

“It’s true.” Castiel settles back down, so Dean doesn’t have to look him in the eye. He shivers as he feels Dean’s fingers run through his hair in light, soothing strokes. “If you wanted to claim me last night, I would have let you. I think I would like that very much.”

Dean makes a choking noise, breath hitching in his chest. “Yeah,” he says as he calms down. “Maybe next time.”

“Good.”

Dean presses a light kiss to Castiel’s hair. “Even if this won’t be just a political match, it’s gonna be complicated.”

“How so?”

Dean swallows. “You’re finally all set up to be King of Paradiso.”

“If all goes to plan,” Castiel mutters. “Naomi isn’t very happy with me.”

“Yeah, well fuck her,” Dean says. “You’re gonna be king if I have anything to say about it.”

Castiel snorts. “As you are a foreign ruler, I don’t think your opinion matters much to anyone except me.”

Dean exhales a gusty sigh. “How is it going to work out, though?” he mutters, almost to himself. “Split our time between our kingdoms? We can’t combine our land – Crowley would be all up on my ass before you could snap your fingers. Don’t get me started on Eve.” He shifts a little underneath Castiel, wiggling further into the blankets. “You’re being very quiet. What gives?”

“I have a plan.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

“I don’t like eating vegetables, but I do it because Sam’ll cry if I don’t. What’s your plan?”

“Are you saying _ I’ll _have to cry to get you to play along?”

“Just spit it out, Cas.”

Castiel ducks his head. “You could abdicate,” he says quietly. “Give Sam the throne.”

Dean doesn’t breathe for a moment. “I can’t do that.”

“Because you don’t think Sam is capable of ruling in your stead?”

“Shut up,” Dean says, terse. “You know it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“He – he doesn’t,” Dean fumbles before a steely look catches in his eye. He states, his face hard, “He’s not ready.”

“Your father is not dead,” Castiel points out. “He could teach Sam.”

Dean snorts a derisive laugh. “Like Dad’s fit to teach _ anything _ about ruling. He checked out years ago. This is the most he’s done for Terra since I was four.”

“Then you could,” Castiel offers, his voice quiet.

Dean doesn’t have an instant comeback for that. 

“You obviously have a very firm grasp of what it takes,” Castiel continues. “Even if you ignore it most of the time.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Of course I do,” Castiel counters. “I saw you in your prime. Directing your men, coordinating attacks. Those are still political skills, Dean. They’re just in a different arena you obviously care about more.”

“Come on.”

“While your father rules, Sam could spend half his time here,” Castiel says. “Learn from you. Learn our – Paradisian – styles as well, if he would find that helpful.”

Despite himself, Dean grins. “The nerd would love that. You guys almost never let people in on your ways.”

“Sam would be more than welcome.”

Dean shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Castiel moves to sit up to look at him properly, but Dean’s arms tighten around his chest, holding him in place. “The real reason, please, Dean.”

“What if he thinks I’m giving up on Terra?” Dean whispers. “Giving up on him? It’s my home, Cas. I can’t just _ leave.” _

Castiel’s heart lurches in his chest. “Sam will know you’re not giving up on him,” he says firmly. “He will know you’re giving up on a position you loathe for something else that will make you happier.”

“Maybe.”

“I may have hinted my idea to him at dinner,” Castiel admits. “He didn’t immediately shoot me down, so I think there is hope.”

“Say this works out,” Dean says, his face inscrutable. “And Sam takes over instead of me. What happens next, once Sam stops coming round? I can’t hold a position in court since I’m not from around here. Will I just be planning parties and redecorating the west wing?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “One,” he ticks off on his finger, “Sam is never going to stop visiting. He would just sneak in somehow if your invitations stopped coming. Two,” he adds, “You would never be _ just _a royal consort. Like I said, you have skills worth employing. They do not encompass event planning or interior design.”

“Like what?” Dean challenges.

Castiel doesn’t answer at once, reddening as he struggles for the right words. “You could be the King’s Champion,” he blurts. “You wouldn’t oversee any land or deal with noble disputes. You would have duties like you did before. Leading a small team of hand-chosen fighters – the King’s Guard, they were called, during my father’s time.”

“What?”

“You’d be a senior advisor too, obviously – mostly on military matters and defense of the kingdom. But you'd have a seat on the royal council. I’d listen to you on anything else, if you wished it. I know It’s not the same as being the King,” Castiel blathers on. “But maybe that would also be appealing?”

Dean’s expression melts. He coughs, his gaze falling away. “I’d have to defeat the old King’s Champion.”

“I don’t think Ezekiel will put up much of a fight. He’s wanted to retire since my father died.”

“Right,” Dean says weakly. His head falls back against the pillows. Staring at the ceiling, he murmurs, “I can’t believe you thought of everything.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case.” He squints at Dean. “So you’ll consider it?”

“I have to talk to Sam,” Dean says. “But hell yeah, I’ll think about it. I didn’t even realize I could be your Champion. Protecting you like a badass. Saving the day. I could dig it.”

“My Champion,” Castiel says, savoring the word on his tongue. “I do like the sound of that.”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says as he bends down to capture Castiel’s lips in a fleeting kiss. “It’ll be fucking awesome.”

* * *

King John has serious reservations about Castiel’s proposal, to neither Sam nor Dean’s surprise. Dean privately tells Castiel King John's main problem is his need to control everything with an iron fist – a task much harder to accomplish if his firstborn son lives an entire kingdom away.

Sam seems cautiously optimistic. A little wary of the responsibility, but Castiel assumes that is normal since he’s been having similar reservations himself.

Castiel arranges his coronation for the next day – a kingdom must never be without a ruler, after all. Even a handful of days is risky enough. The crown sits heavy on his brow, but the besotted, dazed look he catches on Dean’s face in the front row of the crowd makes up for the weight of responsibility and precious metal.

A week later, Charlie turns up the day before the wedding in a blur of red.

“Sorry!” she apologizes once hugs were exchanged with Dean, Sam, and Castiel.

“Man, is it good to see you.” Dean beams down at her. “I couldn’t believe you were about to miss my big day.”

“I wouldn’t have cut it so close if _ somebody _ sent a proper messenger who knew his way around a mountain.”

“Hey, I’ve been a little busy,” Dean says, indignant, as Castiel gestures for the group to move inside, out of the palace courtyard.

“Your Queen shouldn’t be an afterthought,” Charlie grumbles.

“Queen?” Castiel turns as he leads the group up to his chambers, the only place in the palace where it seems he can get some privacy, now the wedding preparations are in full swing and guests are descending by droves.

Dean flushes. “Ah, it was a make-believe game we used to play. Charlie always got mad I was the knight or the prince, so she always made herself the queen to one-up me.”

“He says knight or prince,” Charlie hisses in a stage-whisper, “But he was always my handmaiden.”

Sam snickers.

“All very noble roles to have,” Castiel says solemnly, eyes dancing, as they pause before his chamber door.

Dean scowls as they file in. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, guys. I can still kick your asses from here to Inferno.”

“Don’t,” Charlie says as she throws herself on Castiel’s bed. “Hmmm.” She bounces experimentally. “Comfy.”

Sam perches on top of Castiel’s desk while Castiel takes the chair and drags it around to form a loose circle. Dean takes a spot on the bed next to Charlie.

“I was just in Inferno,” she says as she brushes her hair out of her face. “And, let me tell you, they are not a friendly bunch.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I could’ve told you that.”

“What were you doing there?” Castiel asks.

“Spreading the news _someone _ had been viciously murdered by good ol’ King John for high crimes against the crown,” Charlie says with a pointed glare in Dean’s direction.

Castiel stares at her. Mouth dry, he asks, “You what?”

Charlie sighs. “It was part of my deal. Use my network to alert the kingdom the outlaws of the past year had been brutally put down, and John wouldn’t tear all my limbs off.”

Castiel swallows. “Oh,” is all he can say as his pulse thunders in his ears. “Your network must be very wide.”

“Spans the four kingdoms,” Charlie says proudly.

“I wouldn’t advertise that in front of so many monarchs,” Sam says good-naturedly.

“Like I’d use my powers for evil and go against you two.” Charlie grins at them.

But Dean only has eyes for Castiel. “You doing alright over there?”

“Yes, of course,” Castiel says automatically. But he must’ve sounded off, since all three pairs of eyes turn to him. He makes a feeble gesture in Charlie’s direction. “It’s just… shortly after I was forced to leave Terra, I heard that rumor. Your, ah, network – it is very good.”

Charlie blanches. “Oh fuck. And you believed it?”

Castiel nods to the floor. “I couldn’t verify anything from here.”

“Shit.”

Wordlessly, Dean walks over to the back of Castiel’s chair. His arms fall over Castiel’s shoulders, and he presses a lingering kiss to his temple. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs in his ear. 

Charlie raises a hand to her mouth, looking like she’s about to cry. “I almost stood in the way of tru wuv,” she mumbles, horrified. Her eyes widen as she whispers, “You’re not going to tear all my limbs off are you?”

Castiel grips Dean’s wrists, now lightly crossed over his sternum, tightly. “No. It’s fine. It all worked out in the end.” 

Charlie gulps, her eyes darting from Castiel to Dean and back again. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, let me know. I owe you _ so _ big.”

Castiel shakes his head. “You were just following orders – your king’s orders. I can hardly fault you for that.”

Dean pokes Castiel in the chest. “You don’t turn down owed favors from Charlie, dude,” he says. “And kings give shit orders all the time. Gods, Charlie, that was you?”

Charlie just groans into her hands.

Castiel hesitates. "I think there is one way you can pay me back."

Charlie's eyes narrow. "Genie rules apply here, man. I'm not killing anyone. I can't make anyone fall in love with you – luckily that ship already sailed for our fearless leader. And I'm not trampling over someone's free will either."

Castiel frowns. "I wasn't going to ask for any of that."

"Then sure." Charlie beams. "Fire away."

"I'd like for you to train an associate of mine, if she's amenable."

"Train?"

"I think she'd make a valuable asset to your 'network.' Dean?" Castiel taps once on the back of his hand. "Will you get Samandriel – he's probably waiting outside the door – and ask him to fetch Meg?"

_ "Meg?" _Dean doesn't budge.

Castiel grimaces as he starts to get up himself. 

Dean squeezes his shoulder, keeping him in his seat. "No, no sit back down. I'll do it." He strides out of the room. 

He's back not fifteen seconds later. This time, he sits back on Castiel's bed next to Charlie. “That Samandriel? He’s a squirrelly dude.”

“He’s very deferential to royalty.”

Sam laughs. “Forgot already what that’s like?”

“Didn’t forget,” Dean grumbles. “Just don’t like it.”

“Meg isn’t like that,” Castiel assures Charlie. 

“Ha!”

Charlie turns to Dean, confused. “So she _ is _like that?”

“No, she isn’t,” Sam cuts in. “Dean just doesn’t like her ‘cause he thought she and Cas were a thing.”

“We weren’t,” Castiel adds.

“Fuck all of you.”

“Aw, were you jealous?” Charlie grins, nudging him with her elbow.

Dean dances away. “Knock it off.”

_ “That’s not a no,” _ Charlie sings.

Dean jumps up to stand behind Castiel again. “Hiding? Really?” he asks, amused.

Dean scowls at him. “Not you too. Look, it was an easy mistake to make!”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

The door opens, and Meg waltzes in like she owns the place. “You called?”

“Meg.” Castiel stands to make introductions. “This is Charlie. She deals in information.”

“Is that so? The famous Charlie I’ve heard so much about.” Meg places her hands on her hips. "What do you want to know? Castiel's dirt is off limits though."

"How off limits?"

"Since he's sitting right here? Very."

"And if he wasn't?"

"I'd punch you in the face for even asking," Meg says sweetly. "I was just in Terra. I heard about you."

Charlie's eyes gleam. "And what did you hear?"

Meg sends a sidelong look at Castiel, who shrugs. "That you are the most powerful person in Terra. Apart from the King. And the smartest. Apart from no one." 

Sam grins. "She's not wrong."

"Well _ yeah," _ Charlie says with a dramatic eye roll. "It's just nice to hear out loud every once in a while."

"I asked her to give you a job," Castiel says. "If you wanted it."

"A job," Meg repeats flatly. At Castiel's nod, she frowns. "Are you sending me away?"

Castiel can't detect the hurt in her voice, but he knows her face well enough to see it there, in the tightness behind her eyes. Just as he opens his mouth, Dean snorts with disbelief. "Cas would sooner exile himself. Again."

"That's not the endorsement you think it is, Dean-o,"Meg grimaces, "since Clarence will play the martyr for any Tom, Dick, or Harry."

"I asked Charlie to give you a job,” Castiel says loudly over the pair of them, “so you don't have to be a chambermaid for the rest of your life."

Meg's mouth actually falls open.

Castiel continues, "You can learn new skills and come back to work for me, or you can take your talents elsewhere." A quick, scathing look Meg sends him plainly says he's insane to think she'd go anywhere else. Castiel smiles. "I would have suggested you train under our spymaster, but he allied with Metatron, so that position is currently vacant. I was thinking maybe you could help me choose the next one, since you know how badly I am at reading people."

She turns to Charlie. "Do any of these spy missions of yours, involve fucking over Crowley?"

Charlie makes a so-so motion with her hands. "I'm all about fucking over anyone who isn't Sam or Dean. And Castiel, by extension," she adds diplomatically. 

Castiel asks, “So you’ll do it?” 

Meg shrugs, as if mostly disinterested. “I don’t see how it’ll be any worse than scrubbing chamber pots.”

* * *

Castiel takes one last look at the mirror. He wears yet another set of formal robes, this time cerulean with gold and white edging. The entire back is embroidered in yet more gold thread, massive wings Metatron’s tailors worked on for months. To honor their angel ancestors.

Samandriel tucks a stray tuft of hair beneath his crown so it sits perfectly on his brow. “I think you’re ready, your Majesty,” he says.

“Looking good, good lookin’,” Meg says from the doorway. She had stayed back during the dressing process, letting Samandriel flourish in his element.

“Thank you both.” Castiel squeezes Samandriel’s hand briefly and strides forward to embrace Meg. Surprised, she doesn’t have the chance to protest before Castiel draws away. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

“S-sire,” Samandriel stutters, eyes wide. He flushes a deep red. “That can’t be true.”

“Shut up,” Meg says without looking at him, “and take the compliment, Alfie.”

Samandriel nods once. He bows deeply before stepping away.

“Right.” Castiel inhales sharply. “I suppose they’re expecting me.”

“You’re going to be great,” Meg whispers as she gives him a little shove out the door. “You have to say, like, five words max. Even you can’t fuck that up.”

Castiel snorts. “Your advice is on point as always, Meg.”

“You’ve got this, sire.”

“Thank you, Samandriel.”

Castiel lifts his chin as he leaves his chambers and makes his way silently down the stairs to the great hall. It currently holds over a hundred people, but Castiel can barely hear a whisper of sound as he stands outside the doors. He glances behind him, just once. Meg gives him a thumbs up and a small smile. Samandriel beams.

“Open the doors, please,” Castiel asks the guards standing by.

Castiel takes his first step inside, and there’s an almighty sound of groaning wood as everyone shifts in their seats to watch.

Castiel nearly trips over his own feet – he really should have practice this – but how he could he possibly have prepared himself for the sight of Dean’s waiting at the end of the aisle? The expression on his face – Castiel has never seen anything like it in all his years. 

Dean looks at him like Castiel holds everything precious in the world.

Somehow, he strides the whole length of the aisle without incident.

Castiel’s breaths come shallowly as he stops in front of Dean. He opens his mouth, only for the words to die in his throat as Joshua starts speaking. Right, it's not his time to talk.

Dean reaches for his hand. 

To Castiel’s relief, Dean’s hand is warm but clammy. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Dean’s sheepish grin. Castiel’s lips quirk up into an almost imperceptible smile in return. He interlaces their fingers, brushing the pad of his thumb over and over the back of Dean’s hand.

Somehow, he feels Dean’s nerves ease as he clings on.

In the assembled crowd, Castiel can make out King John and Sam in the front row. Sam winks as he catches Castiel’s eye. Immediately next to Sam sits Charlie, and then Jo. Castiel finds Benny with some difficulty a few rows back, sitting next to Jesse, Cesar, Garth and Kevin. Kevin seems the most overwhelmed out of all of them, unable to sit still as he twists around in his seat to take everything in.

As he turns back to face front again, Dean mouths, “Okay?”

Castiel merely squeezes his hand in return.

The furrow between Dean’s eye smooths. He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing. After a quick glance at Joshua, still droning on, Dean meets Castiel’s gaze. “I love you,” he mouths next.

Castiel blinks.

The furrow is back with a vengeance. Dean tries silently, “Castiel? _ Cas?” _ He starts to pull his hand away.

Castiel hold son tighter. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he mouths back, “I love you too, Dean.”

Dean’s shoulders sag with relief, and Castiel should really demonstrate his affections more if Dean ever doubted Castiel returns his feelings that strongly.

Castiel catches Joshua’s eye and gives a little nod, encouraging him to continue with his wedding vows. Quickly, before he can overthink it, Castiel leans over and presses a fleeting kiss to Dean’s cheek. 

Unflappable to his core, Joshua doesn’t even stumble over his next words.

But Dean blushes a fierce red.

Technically, the wedded pair should only touch with the hands before the first kiss. But their ceremony could never strictly follow all the traditions - they had to throw most of them out the window to accommodate Castiel’s designation. If he had adhered to the old restrictions, Castiel wouldn’t have walked down the aisle unaccompanied, and he would have been dressed much simpler – his current getup benefits a king alone. While Dean, a royal alpha, is dressed richly, it shows in the fabric quality rather than the adornments. He wears a simple circlet of gold rather than a proper crown like Castiel’s.

Castiel can barely look away from Dean as they go through the rituals asking for the gods to bless their union. Joshua addresses the crowd one last time for the final prayer to be said by all present.

Castiel’s heart swells as Josha turns to him. “King Castiel of Paradiso, do you take this man to be yours, to have and to hold, to honor him and forsake all others for him, for the rest of your days?”

“I do.”

“And Prince Dean of Terra, I ask you the same. Do you take this man to be yours, to have and to hold, to honor him and forsake all others for him, for the rest of your days?”

“I do.” Dean doesn’t hesitate.

Joshua raises his hands. “Then, it is my pleasure to pronounce you both married in the eyes of the gods’ and everyone here.”

To the sound of thunderous applause, Dean cradles Castiel’s face in his hands and presses their lips together. Castiel’s arms wind around Dean’s waist, keeping them together even as their mouths break apart. They stand there for a moment, foreheads resting against each other and breaths intermingling.

“You ready?” Dean murmurs.

“Yes, Dean.” Castiel inhales, slow and deep, a burning, all-consuming joy filling him along with the scent of Dean’s own happiness. He says aloud, for the first time in his life, “I love you.”

Dean grins as they turn to greet their guests. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [goldenraeofsun](https://goldenraeofsun.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr too, if you want to chat!


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